


the lightning strike

by rosewitchx



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternative Universe - Kingdom, Arranged Marriage, Betrayal, Birthday Presents, Blood Pacts, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Brotherly Bonding, Chronic Illness, DadSchlatt, Day At The Beach, Demigods, Depression, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fainting, Fantasy, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Gods, Grief/Mourning, Hearing Voices, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Kidnapping, Letters, Lunch Club - Freeform, Magic, Mando'a Language (Star Wars), Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Minor Character Death, Morally Grey Jschlatt, More tags to be added, Newborn Children, Non-Linear Narrative, Orphanage, Panic Attacks, Parenthood, Past Character Death, Platonic Soulmates, Possession, Potions, Prophetic Dreams, Raccoon TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Rescue Missions, Royalty, Running Away, Secret Relationship, Self-Hatred, Shapeshifting, Sick Character, Sky Gods - Freeform, Sneaking Out, Snow Day, Snowmen, Suicide Attempt, Tea Parties, Team as Family, Teen Crush, Teenage Drama, Temporary Character Death, Tieflings, Time Travel, Tournaments, War, Wings, it's karl shenanigans, just mentioned very briefly, minecraft championship, minx's cats are harassed, not literally. Emotionally, the energy of a hozier song
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:07:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 29,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27652501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosewitchx/pseuds/rosewitchx
Summary: A collection of tales from another world.— or:Technoblade and Dream commiserate in a farm, ignoring their gods;King Schlatt and his Knight mourn their losses;And other stories from a pseudo-D&D fantasy AU where things hurt.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Jschlatt, Alexis | Quackity & Toby Smith | Tubbo, But i SWEAR its platonic youll have to wait and see, Clay | Dream & Dave | Technoblade, Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Karl Jacobs & Sapnap, Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Karl Jacobs, Floris | Fundy & Wilbur Soot, Jschlatt & Minx | JustAMinx (Video Blogging RPF), Jschlatt & Wilbur Soot, Jschlatt/Minx | JustAMinx, Karl Jacobs & Sapnap, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot/Original Female Character(s), i dont wanna tag all the lunch club friendships zzz, i promise everything is platonic. You’ll See, its sally, the only hints of “romance” could come from
Comments: 84
Kudos: 226
Collections: Golden Sons AU (DSMP)





	1. what if this storm ends (and i don’t see you)

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome, welcome!!  
> Now, for some clarification: the stories are not in chronological order, but I will clarify if anything’s needed. Do mind the tags, and please let me know if there’s anything else I should tag.  
> This is a sort-of D&D AU that my friend roped me into, in which people can be vessels to the gods and the sky gods are the fucking worst. 
> 
> Title: The Lightning Strike trilogy by Snow Patrol.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Technoblade and Tubbo nurse an injured Dream back to health. Later, two soulmates talk about making impossible choices.

He stumbles through the forest, starving, weakened, and prays. 

_Which one,_ he begs to the skies _. Which one, please?_

No one says anything, but his God listens. 

Dream is shivering, malnourished, and won’t meet Techno’s eyes - or tell them where George and Sapnap are, or if they’re even alive for that matter.

 _Ain’t that a parallel,_ the Blood God whispers in his ear, _now he’s the one running_ . The irony isn’t missed on him, but he doesn’t find it funny at all. He’s known the Hunter almost his whole life - more than ten years, now; he knows every inch of his soul like it is his, he knows the way his friend _moves_ like he’s the one giving those steps. They’re _soulmates,_ chosen by the Gods; they killed dragons together, survived together, learned to _live_ together. 

This Dream, he does not recognize. There’s only the faintest trace of the Hunter, the Runner, the one person in the known world that could evenly match him, the boy from the village in the forest. He doesn’t recognize a weakened boy, still half-frozen from where Techno had found him, just shy of Phil’s farm, holding nothing but the clothes on his back and a single, rusty knife (not even his mask - just what the fuck had happened to him?). He doesn’t recognize the ghost in his eyes, haunting his every move, and that scares him more than anything that could’ve caused this.

 _Maybe you should be,_ the Blood God whispers. _Don’t you want to hunt it down too, taste its blood spilled?_

Dream sneezes, keeps his face low. Techno wishes he at least had _something_ to cover his friend’s face with; at the moment, the best they can do is give him a cloak and watch him curl even deeper into it, away from prying eyes. Tubbo, currently the one tending to his injuries, frowns. “Techno, could you pass me the alcohol?,” he asks him, and he rushes to help, to be useful. The liquid burns at the young man’s wounds and Dream bites back a hiss. 

“Dream,” Techno starts, reaching for his best friend’s hand. He doesn’t like the way he flinches at the contact, not at all. “Dream, please, talk to us. What happened?”

“Nothing happened.” He’s too quick to reply. Even _Tubbo_ doesn’t buy it, and Tubbo, Gods bless his soul, would trust a serial killer if they gave him the slightest of kindnesses. “Please drop it,” he asks them. His voice cracks at the end.

 _I think,_ the Blood God starts, and then falters, and if that isn’t a bad omen then Techno doesn’t know what is. 

“If you say so.”

And so they drop the subject, for now. Tubbo wraps his clean cuts with bandages, disinfects the sick ones; Techno stitches and mends, sets holy talismans on his friend, murmurs prayers to his God and hopes whatever he’s giving up to it won’t be too great of a price. 

_Fear not, child,_ the Blood God whispers, and war brews in the depths of its voice. _For that boy, there’s nothing we wouldn’t do._

_Which one,_ he asks his God. His heart is racing in his chest. 

The God of Conquest is listening, but it doesn’t reply. 

_Please,_ he begs his God. _Don’t make me choose._

 _I’m sorry,_ the God of Conquest whispers. 

“Dream?,” Techno calls out, trying to keep his voice quiet. Amara sleeps on his shoulders; he wouldn’t want to wake her. “You shouldn’t be out here.”

He sits by his friend’s side on the porch, staring into the night sky. It’ll snow later, but it’s clear enough now that they can sort-of see the stars, like staring through frosted glass. 

“How far is too far?,” Dream whispers. There are tears starting to well in his eyes — it almost feels forbidden, to watch this moment, to allow it to happen. He elaborates: “there’s something I have to do, and I don’t think I could continue living if I _don’t_ do it— but I’m going to lose myself if I do go through with it.

“Am I making a mistake?,” he muses. “I’m ruining everything, aren’t I?”

Amara shifts on his shoulders, burrows herself deeper into his neck; her little feathers tickle in a way that makes his insides jittery. He lets out a sigh, then reaches for his friend’s hand and holds it with care (he would rather not redo the stitches, even if he does love Dream very much). He dwarfs his halfling friend, always has (ever since they hit thirteen and Techno had that _massive_ growth spurt), but he does even more so now, as Dream shrinks into himself at the contact. _Don’t fuck this up, Technoblade,_ he tells himself. His God is oddly silent. 

(He thinks of being seventeen and on the brink of death by his own hand. He thinks of walking away from the one friend he ever had. He thinks of sobbing his heart out when they were reunited, a year later, and of the way Dream had clung to him for an entire week.)

(He thinks of the way Dream had told him, “I don’t know what I would do if you were really, truly gone,” and he knows he understands perfectly, staring at the frail figure by his side. This is what rock bottom looks like. This is what a man at the end of the line looks like. And he refuses to walk away, this time.)

“Well,” Techno tells him, hoping he is not making a mistake. “We do what we have to do to survive. You and I, we’re survivors first, always have been, see. And the fact is, no one can hold that against you, Dream. You do what you _have_ to do.”

The words feel heavier than they should, and yet Dream lets out a miserable laugh. “Gods,” he breathes out. “You’ll hate me when you see it. When you _understand_ just _what_ I have to do.”

“Swear I won’t. Besides, who’d I ever spar with again? _Tommy?_ He can’t even hold the sword right yet.”

“Techno—“

“I’m serious, man. Listen to yourself. I think this is the first time in my _life_ that I’ve ever seen you act like this. There’s no point in being _afraid_ of losing me, genius, I’ve seen you do things that _have_ resulted in both of us getting banned from entire countries, and I’m still here, by your side.”

Dream doesn’t say anything to that. Just a small nod follows. 

_Whatever happened to him, whatever they did to my friend,_ Techno thinks, _it probably wasn’t pretty._

His God is too silent. 

“So, Dream, _will_ you tell me what exactly it is that you have to do so desperately?” The Hunter laughs, a little strained - and yet the most genuine he’s been all night. 

“If I tell you,” he says, “I will never have the courage to leave.” _And I have to_ goes unsaid. 

“Okay then,” Techno nods, standing up. His hand rests on Dream’s shoulder for just a second longer. “Just don’t go where I can’t follow.”

The Hunter looks up at his best friend and his very being threatens to crumble. He thinks of two boys under the pouring rain. “We’ll see,” he manages to reply. 

“Come on,” Techno tells him, beckoning him towards the door. “Let’s go back inside. Amara’s gonna freeze to death out here.”

Dream hesitates, but follows him in, and the moment the door closes behind him his fate is sealed. 

(It was sealed the second he’d failed to protect his friends.)

_Which one,_ he’s pleading, now. 

He creeps through the farmhouse’s hallways, unnaturally silent. His God is still silent. _Please help me,_ he prays to it. 

His hand lingers over Amara’s door. He feels a chill run down his back. _He’d never forgive you,_ his God tells him. _Not for any of them, but especially not her._

And he knows it’s right. Technoblade had held her as a babe with hands that didn’t yet trust themselves. He’d seen her grow, let her sleep on his shoulders; he’d taught her everything he knew. She was his baby sister. 

He continues, then. Wilbur’s room. The door is slightly ajar, and he peeks in: he’s fast asleep, clutching at his lute and at the child in his arms like it’s a lifeline. It would be the least aggravating, he thinks. Wilbur is an adult, closer to their ages, and it’s not like he’s a stranger to dangerous situations. Techno might be mad (Techno will hate him) but at least Wil wouldn’t be in any _real_ danger. And if he chose Fundy instead — 

_Unforgivable,_ he reminds himself.

He reaches for the bottle he’d slipped from Tubbo’s kit earlier, drenched in ether, but his God suddenly says, _not him, nor the child,_ and Dream squeezes his eyes shut. 

_Why not?_

His God doesn’t answer. 

_Please._

_He’s taken already,_ his God tells him, and elaborates no further. 

That leaves just one room. 

He stops before Tubbo and Tommy’s door. He wants nothing more than to turn away, scream his sins at Technoblade, beg for forgiveness for the horrible crime he’s about to commit, but he doesn’t. He stands there, breathes, prays, and pushes ahead. 

_Take the boy,_ his God guides. _The son of an elf and a tiefling._

He looks at Tubbo, sleeping peacefully under the moonlight. He looks at Tommy, curled up in his own bed, unaware of the man about to steal his best friend. _No. Not him. Please._

Tubbo, the tiny druid that had saved him more than once. Tubbo, the kindest soul. Tubbo, the light of the household. 

_I’m sorry,_ his God apologizes one final time. _But you asked me to choose._

He’s gone by morning, and he’s taken Tubbo with him.

Techno stands by the porch, shivering under the falling snow. His family is angry, understandably-so, heartbroken, but all he feels is numb. 

Tubbo is gone. 

His _brother_ is gone. 

He stares at the footsteps in the snow, trailing into the forest. There’s the trail of his best friend’s blood staining the sheets of white, probably from his reopened wound. There’s a shard of his brother’s horns, splintered against the ground as Dream presumably tried to get him to stop struggling. 

_Gods,_ he wants to vomit. _Dream took his fucking brother._

 _What will you do?,_ his God asks him, hesitant. It’s so unlike it, to hesitate. But Techno guesses, it’s been long enough since he last let his God do as it pleased. So he walks into the house, heads into his room and grabs his axe. He doesn’t need to look to know that, deep in his room, Wilbur is making more arrows, or that Tommy is sharpening his sword already, or that Phil is gathering the potions they have left and making more. 

(He thinks of Dream, curled up on the snowy fields, his blood spilled everywhere, and flinching away from his touch.)

 _I’m going to take them both back,_ Techno answers. _And whoever’s behind this shall have their blood spilled._

The Blood God brims with joy. 

_Finally,_ it says. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit: i did not forget aboyt baby fundy what are tou saying ❤️


	2. from here, the caravans are kids' toys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A knight delivers grave news to his King. Two best friends make a promise.

Quackity, predictably, finds the King hiding in the gardens. Not his private one, right by his quarters, safe and secluded from the outside world, but the vast ones that surround the castle. He doesn’t even need to go looking for too long; he knows exactly where he’s gone, where he always goes when he’s upset, ever since they were both naive and young and he could bribe the Heir with promises of candy and scheming.

He doesn’t think make-believe scams will help today.

Gods, it’s too fucking cold for this. He tucks himself into his wings and shivers. What a terrible day for this tragedy. 

The King is underneath the willow tree the Queen had planted many years ago, when they had just met each other. Quackity still remembers that whole ordeal; the King had  _ hated  _ that thing, despised it if only to make his future wife mad, and she had the nastiest mouth in the entire known world, and the tree had flourished under their joint reign, much to the King’s displeasure. Now, the tree is just as beautiful as ever, and the Queen rests forevermore by its roots; it is by her grave where he spots the dark silhouette below its shade. Quackity stands by the clearing, but not too close, and takes in the sight. His best friend in the entire world is curled up on the grass, against the bark, staring dead-eyed ahead. His black mourning robes are stained green and brown from the mud and the rain; he’s taken off some of his horns’ silver decorations, and he’s rolling one of them in his hand. He looks, quite frankly, miserable. 

It crushes his soul. Loss after loss, the King just continues getting struck down by the gods. It makes him kinda angry. 

“Sir?,” Quackity calls him, softly, as he takes another step forward. “It’s just me.”

The King just curls up into himself even more. “Have you found him?”

“I’m afraid not.” He wants nothing else but to run and crush him into a hug, proper manners be damned. “But— but we have every soldier in the entire kingdom looking. The thief won’t escape, your Highness.”

“It was Wilbur, wasn’t it?”

He says those words as if they’re tearing his heart right out of his chest, and they might as well be. And Quackity, he wants to lie, wants to shelter him, protect him, and yet…

And yet, he says, “I’m sorry.”

Schlatt nods, gravely, and the saddest laugh Quackity’s ever heard escapes his throat. “Don’t be,” he says. “The fucking Court pities me enough as it is.”

He pats at the ground next to him, and Quackity comes closer, sitting in the patch of moss and clovers, scooting close to his King; the young royal doesn’t waste time and leans into his friend with a deep sigh. 

“I was such an idiot,” he says, “to believe the Gods would allow me even the fucking faintest of hopes.”

“C’mon, don’t say that.”

“First Minx fuckin’ bites the dust. And— I thought, it’s fine, it’s  _ all good,  _ because at least I have my son, you know?” Aaaand he’s crying again, great. This whole situation really isn’t doing any wonders for Quackity’s heart. “I have Wilbur, and I have my son. Hah. I am not the jester, I am the entire fucking carnival.”

They remain quiet, for a while. There really isn’t much he could say to make anything better at this point; the King is devastated, and words are going to bring the Prince back. He holds Schlatt’s hand within his own and, carefully, plants a kiss on his knuckles. 

“Schlatt,” he says, and the King looks at him from the corner of his eye, exhausted. “I know I can’t magically fix everything. But I swear on the Gods above and below that I won’t stop searching for him; I won’t give up,  _ mi amor.  _ And neither should you.”

The King doesn’t move; the only indicator that he even  _ heard  _ Alexis is the small twitch of his hand as it tightens its grip on the confidant and the flick of his tail. 

But then the King looks at him, and it is not His Highness’ serious eyes who meet Quackity’s, just Jebediah. Just his best friend ever since forever, since he has any memory, since they ran through the hallways as children scamming the maids and the court. Big Q and Big J against the world. 

“I won’t,” Schlatt swears. And though they pact on it later on, each other’s blood swirling and blending into one over their handshake, the promise under Minx’s tree is the promise neither of them wants to ever break. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the way, there’s no telling when or if inwill write more of this. there’s one (1) draft imnworking on but im in exams and honestly that one is fighting me. so we’ll see. 
> 
> but i hope i can at least finish that one, because its really cute.


	3. something was bound to go right, sometime today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reunion takes place.

Tubbo, despite all that had happened and all that had been revealed, insisted on being left alone to change clothes, anything for a moment of solitude without a thousand maids and soldiers to match. Now, however, as he stands in a dressing room way too big for him, staring at himself in the silver mirror, he’s starting to reconsider it. 

He looks like a damn idiot. The pants are too fancy, the fabric too sturdy and soft, and the shirt is the softest silk he’s ever touched in his life. He looks like a boy pretending. He looks like a fragile imitation, and he’s waiting for the second where the King realizes his mistake and sends him to the guillotine. 

(“You are so much like them both, but especially her I think,” the King’s Knight had confided in him the night previous. “Who else could you be? Half elf, half tiefling, and you look just like the Queen and King. I promise you, this is not a mistake.”

It feels like one.)

He hasn’t even put on the tie yet, or the overly-complicated cloak that he can’t figure out how to wear, or even the boots (the most normal part of this outfit). He’ll be late, and then the Knight by his door will be late, and he will be a disappointment and be cast aside. 

(Why does that scare him so badly? It wouldn’t be the first time, after all.)

_ Gods,  _ he prays a little, in his head, squeezing his eyes shut,  _ I don’t know what I’m doing.  _ He’s in way over his head, pretending to be a prince just to make some poor King feel better about himself. He misses his home. He misses his brothers. He misses Phil, the closest thing to a father he’d ever had. He misses Tommy so bad. 

He feels the cloak between his fingers. It’s heavy but delicate, with beautiful patterns woven into it. He recognizes a few of the symbols in the royal blue fabric; some are sigils he’s seen traced or carved into his family’s armor (protection, good fortune, prosperity), and then there’s the royal family insignia, embroidered right above where he  _ supposes  _ the heart would be. It feels - and he understands this is a strange thing to think, but it is true - it feels  _ loved. _

He doesn’t hear the door open, lost in his own thoughts; he only realizes he is no longer alone when the King speaks: “nice cloak, right?”

He whips around. The King is standing there, leaning against the wall, a relaxed smile on his face. It’s weird; for some reason, Tubbo doesn’t think the King is a very happy person, but the smile fits in his expression like he was made for it. 

The King is young - at least, younger than Tubbo expected him to be; it doesn’t really make sense that he’s his son, when the man isn’t even thirty yet. He’s barely older than Tubbo himself, but holds himself with a weight that he’s only ever seen mirrored in Technoblade. He’s dressed quite simply compared to his usual attire, just a white shirt and pants, and a comfortable knit sweater, which is a bit surprising considering the event that’s before them, but then he realizes he probably just hasn’t changed yet. The most striking aspect of the King, anyway, has to be his horns. They’re twisting things, curls branching into a deer-like tree and adorned with silver rings and jewels. Someone had once told Tubbo horns split and branched if the bearer committed a grave, irredeemable evil. He remembers Phil telling him, “it’s not something  _ evil,  _ but more like something that goes  _ against  _ your moral compass. Something that  _ you  _ consider wrong, even if it ends up being good in the long run.” It doesn’t make Tubbo feel better. He wonders just how many sins the King has pushed through, all in the name of recovering his lost child, and now he feels that acid guilt pooling in his stomach again. 

But the King doesn’t seem to notice his inner turmoil, or if he does, he doesn’t care that much anyway. He simply says, “do you need any help, kid?,” like he expected this. “I know the— the cloak can be a little messy. When I was your age I could never get it on right. Overly complicated for no good reason.”

“It is,” he agrees, hesitant. Even after a month here he still doesn’t know what is the right thing to say to this man, even though nothing bad has happened when he has messed up. “I’m, uh, sorry. I could use some help.” 

So the King walks forward. His tail swishes behind him, long and curling at the ends. Tubbo wishes he could decipher him faster, but so far all he’s got is a melancholic man trying really hard not to scare him off. The King’s hands (pale, cold, a little too bony) tremble as he helps him tie the red ribbon around his neck. He tries and fails not to think about Tommy. 

“You’ll do just fine,” he tells the boy, and Tubbo can appreciate the attempt at small talk, even if it’s pretty bad. The tie looks good, at least. “The Court will love you.”

“You’re just saying that,” Tubbo says. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“Well, lucky for you,  _ I  _ will be doing all the speaking. You just have to stand there, unless you actually want to say something.” The King chuckles, just a bit, and reaches for the cloak in Tubbo’s hands. He, too, feels the fabric between his fingers, and something in Tubbo’s throat catches. “I mean, as long as you don’t, say, do anything insane, they probably won’t hate you. They’re just politicians, nothing to be afraid of.”

“They control everything, though. That’s scary enough as it is.”

“But you control  _ them.  _ The trick is to  _ look  _ confident, fake it ‘til you make it and all that jazz.” He leans in, as if conspiring, and whispers, “I might look like an idiot half the time, but we haven’t lost a single battle yet, and that’s  _ not  _ thanks to the Court.”

“I guess,” Tubbo says. The King puts the cloak over his shoulders, wrapping the front strips around his torso and finally clicking the button by his neck close. He steps back then and looks at him with such longing it makes the boy want to cry.  _ It’s warm,  _ Tubbo thinks. Warm and heavy and comforting and soft, and he  _ feels  _ the sigils working, even after an eternity in disuse. 

“Fits you perfectly,” the King sighs, and rubs his hand over his face. “You know, your mother made that thing for me, back before we even got married.”

“She did?,” Tubbo asks. It’s the first time the King’s mentioned her in the entirety of his stay at the palace; sue him for being curious about his maybe-mother. 

A shadow crosses the King’s face every time her name is mentioned around him, he’s noticed; this time is no different, even if he’s the one talking about the late Queen. “Minx was… very talented,” he tells the boy. Crosses his arms. His smile no longer reaches his eyes. “And a crazy ass woman, I’ll tell you that. When we were young, we would terrorize the Court just because we didn’t want to get married at first. She was  _ scarily  _ good at brewing potions. She once told the prophets to ‘fuck off’ because they told her Cornelius would be the ugliest cat in the kingdom. I mean, you’ve seen the thing, right, it’s the nastiest kitten I’ve ever seen in my life. Horrible to look at.”

“I think Cornelius is cute,” Tubbo counters. He’s grown used to the cat, old as he is, same with Sylum. The latter would sleep in his bed, actually, despite the King’s Knight’s protests, and while Cornelius just sticks around following the King all day, Tubbo himself is with him most of the time anyway, and both cats don’t seem to mind him petting them. “He’s just built a little different, is all.”

“I’m half-convinced they’re demon spawns,” the King insists. His expression, which had lightened for a moment, sobers up. “We fought it for a long time. We really didn’t want to get married, but we never had any real choice in the matter. And we were friends, anyway, even if she was insane. We basically waged war really hard against the Court, fought for  _ years  _ until we held enough power and could change things so whoever came after us wouldn’t have to do it. 

“But then you were born,” and the King’s voice is unbelievably soft for a man like him, conqueror of the Known World, winner of All Wars. It’s too gentle, too  _ caring _ for the leader of the Empire that had chased Wilbur to the ends of the Earth and had killed Tommy’s father. And Tubbo’s heart shouldn’t be aching, and Tubbo should be denying the truth laid before him with all his strength, but he finds that he can’t. “And she was  _ gone.  _ And I had nothing, but I had you. And I loved you more than anything in the world, kid.”

His heart races in his chest. He refuses to believe it. He is just an imitator, a fake. This man - sins and all - doesn’t deserve to be tricked by him. He deserves to find his son, wherever he is. 

“Your Highness, I don’t know if I’m really— if I’m who you’re missing, sir,” is Tubbo’s last line of defense, his very last wall standing.

He’s a boy pretending. He is an orphan with a past he cannot remember in any detail. He is Wilbur and Techno’s little brother, Tommy and Amara’s big brother. He is just a farm boy, a druid-in-training. He is not a prince. He cannot be.

And the King just laughs. Somber, tired, but a laugh that demolishes those walls nevertheless.

“Tobias,” his father says, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, “I knew it was you from the second I laid eyes on you. You have her dumb lost-deer face and my father’s eyes. And that scar on your neck gave it away too.”

_ Sylum bit you as a child,  _ a voice supplies, and he knows it to be unshakeably true. Is it the Gods? He doesn’t want to think about it right now. 

“Oh,” he whispers. He had known all along. 

He watches as the man fixes a pin onto the collar of his shirt — a little silver thing which he will eventually learn was blessed by the Gods. But today all he gets is this:

“This was hers,” his father confesses. “And it’s yours now, if you want it. I know it’s sudden, but she would’ve wanted you to have it, I think, she was sentimental like that when she wanted to be. I have to go get ready now, but if you need me just tell Quackity, okay bud?”

A split-second decision, then.

“Okay, dad,” Tubbo attempts. The King stares at him for a moment, caught off-guard, before rushing off, and Tubbo will pretend he didn’t see him wiping at his eyes just before the door closed behind him. He sits down on the chair again and pulls the boots closer to him. His whole being is trembling. He huddles up in the cloak, sighing, and realizes it smells like roses.

Today, he is presented to the Court: Prince Tobias Schlatt, heir to the Manbergian Crown. King Schlatt is overjoyed. The entire capital celebrates the return of the lost Prince and the end of the wars. 

Tomorrow, when his brothers arrive, Tubbo’s left horn will start to branch. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, the prince is tubbo. shocker! i die for dadschlatt.  
> im thinking next chapter thingy might be wil-centered. or maybe ill actually finish the big schlatt and minx prank war one...
> 
> for reference:  
> [tubbo is lawful good ](https://www.reddit.com/r/dreamsmp/comments/jw5pay/saw_a_lot_of_people_making_alignment_charts_of/)  
> [tiefling concepts from here bc i thought they were very very cute okay](https://filibusterfrog.tumblr.com/post/187472409263)


	4. i want pinned down, i want unsettled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Technoblade interrupts a furtive date in the woods.

So. 

Well. 

Just hear him out. Technoblade didn’t  _ mean  _ to run into— into this, okay? He was just looking for his brother. He was— dinner’s ready. Hear him out. 

This is so awkward.

Wilbur stomps past him, face red, as they rush back home through the forest. They’d gone sort of deep into the woods, so the conversation that was about to happen was unavoidable - even if neither of them wanted to ever discuss _that_. 

And yet—

“So, uh,” Techno starts. “Who was that? Is she from the village?”

Wil walks faster. “No.”

“Who was she then? Kinda uh, seems like she’s out of your league.” Out of  _ everyone’s  _ league. 

“No, she’s just— agh.” Wilbur glares at him. This would be hilarious if Techno wasn’t reeling with suspicion right now. “She’s— she’s just a friend, okay? Everyone has friends. Is that a  _ crime  _ now?”

“Right,” Techno says. “A friend. A friend you were passionately making out with in the middle of the woods.”

“Shut  _ up,  _ dude.” 

Techno grabs him by the arm, then, and they come to an abrupt halt. Around them, the forest grows still; Techno doubts that’s a coincidence. 

_ We can take her,  _ the Blood God whispers in his ear.  _ We can defeat her.  _

“I just want you to be safe,” he tells Wilbur, ignoring his God’s words. “And if she’s what I think she is—“

“Techno—“

“—then how can I be sure she’s not using you?”

And Techno would know a thing or two about being used by the Gods. 

_ Don’t be so dramatic,  _ the Blood God scoffs.  _ You turned out alright.  _

_ I almost died,  _ he wants to snap at it.  _ I’ve done horrible things in your name.  _ But he doesn’t, because then Wilbur would look at him weird. So he just goes, “I love you, Wilbur. You know I don’t say that lightly.”

And Wilbur sighs. “If I tell you, you have to  _ swear  _ you won't tell Phil. You can't. He’d lose his shit.”

_ Swear on it,  _ the Blood God pushes.  _ I am curious.  _

Technoblade sighs. “Alright, I  _ swear, _ ” he says, and lets go of his brother’s arm. “Now talk. Better now than back home.”

They resume their trek, then. It’ll get dark soon; it is pretty dark  _ already,  _ and there’s a storm coming, if the howling of the wind is any indicator. And as they walk, Wilbur speaks: “her name is Sally, and she’s— she’s a forest spirit. A dryad.”

_ Definitely not a dryad,  _ the Blood God remarks. It seems amused by all of this. Technoblade wants to punch it. “Really.”

“ _ Yes,  _ Techno.”

“Because she looks like a  _ god  _ to me.”

Wilbur purses his lips. “Like you’ve ever seen a god,” he says. 

“You’d be surprised.” The Blood God laughs. The forest thrums with energy. “ _ I _ think she’s the Forest God.”

Wilbur doesn’t reply. 

“Seriously, man?”

“Look, she’s— she’s not  _ evil.  _ I know what you think about the gods, but trust me on this one. She’s not even neutral. She is just genuinely nice. She saved my life,” Wilbur says, “before I knew any of you; she kept me alive long enough for Phil to find me. We hung out more because she liked my music and one thing led to another and—”

“And now you’re, what, her lover?”

“Yes? No? I don’t know. Do lovers do that? I’ve never dated anyone before. You date Dream, is it like the same thing?”

Techno blanches. The Blood God cackles. “First off, Dream and I  _ do not date.  _ We are  _ platonic soulmates. _ ”

“If you say so, buddy,” Wilbur mutters. 

“I’m serious. If you ever imply that again I might actually vomit. Here I am  _ out here  _ being  _ worried  _ for you and you’re just coming at me like this.”

“Don’t be such a baby. I’m asking a serious question.”

“And I will reply with a yes, you’re probably lovers. I should be surprised but I’m not, this is  _ you  _ we’re talking about.”

“What is  _ that  _ supposed to mean?,” Wilbur laughs. His whole face is tinted pink, and in his daydreaming he stumbles with a tree’s roots and almost falls, but that doesn’t stop him from waxing poetic about her.  _ Ugh, romance. _ “I just think she’s so great. We hang out all the time. Well, when she’s around.”

“What do you mean?”  _ Gods, I wish you weren’t around all the time,  _ he wants to yell at his God. 

Wilbur continues walking for a little bit in silence. He’s sobered up, Techno realizes, apparently worried about her. “The Sky Gods don’t want her around here,” he says. “She’s basically sneaking out, too.”

The Blood God is silent, for once.

“Is…”  _ I can’t believe I’m asking this.  _ “Is she okay?”

“They don’t know yet, so yeah, she’s fine. But we don’t know how long we can keep this up.” 

The house is visible, now, far into the distance. Just another couple steps and they’ll be out of the forest and into the farm’s fields. Wilbur turns to Techno again, now. 

“You really can’t tell anyone,” he says. “I’m serious.”

“I won’t,” Techno insists. “Unless you get hurt.”

Wil sighs. “Techno—“

“Nope. This is non-negotiable. If she even  _ looks  _ at you wrong, forget about the promise. I’m telling Phil so he can  _ stop me  _ from hurting her back. Understood?”

Their eyes meet. Underneath the moonlight, red and brown seem to reach an agreement. 

“Understood,” Wil says. His brother smiles - finally, relief and tranquility. Around them, the forest settles. 

“Alright, let’s go home.”

They step into the fields, finally, and as they march towards the house Techno dares look back. 

The girl is standing there, within the edges of the forest. An eagle shrieks around her, and with a shivering hand she waves at the two brothers; with a toothy grin she turns, and soon all he can see of her is her wild red hair as she flees into the depths of the woods. When he looks back to Wil, who’s already reached the house, he catches him staring, too, at the spot where she’d been, with the dumbest in-love face he’s ever seen on him. 

“Geez,” Techno mutters, shaking his head and marching forward. “Why the fuck is my family so weird.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, writing sweet baby fundy chapter:  
> sally the salmon:  
> me: you are god now
> 
> so,,,,,,,, now i have TWO wips,,,


	5. a minute ago, you looked alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the disappearance of the Prince, the Knights of the Horned King take matters into their own hands.

**000**

A child’s wails break through the silence of the grasslands. The man carrying him - his caretaker, now, but not for very long - moves a finger and places it on the babe’s parted lips.

“Shh,” he whispers to him, words laced with ancient, ageless magic and echoing with power he himself can’t realize he’s carrying. “It’s alright. I’m right here.”

He walks away from the city, the only place he’s ever known, and doesn’t even think of looking back.

**003**

Ted heard of the news almost as they happened. That’s how it tends to be, for him. He’s observant, sharp, in ways many simply don’t think to be, and he might be a Lord of the Empire, but he is down-to-earth enough to know to keep himself between his people and not above them. This time, though, he can’t attribute it to his bright mind; no, the news caught him off-guard, just like they did the rest of the country.

So he’s milking some cows, as one does when one is a Lord, thinking about how their horns kinda look like his and all that jazz, and that’s when the news comes. A messenger rushes into the stable, and Ted rolls his eyes when she kneels before him (capital people, am I right), but then sees the scorched roll of paper in her hands, and her disheveled appearance, and understands this is serious enough to demand at least a bit of respect. So he stands up from the dirt, wipes his hands against his pants, and follows her out.

“Lord Nivison,” she’s saying, then. She’s not a regular messenger by any means, if her clothing (dark, elegant) is any indicator. She’s elven - so from Queen Minx’s side, he guesses. It hurts a little still, thinking about her; it’s only been a month, after all, too soon for all the wounds to heal. He’s been here barely a few days, what with the funeral and Tobias’ first few critical days, and consoling his friend, of course. It’s odd that he’s required back so soon after. He quickens the pace. “Lord Nivison, this is important—”

“I know,” he interrupts. “That’s why we can’t just discuss it out in the barn, miss...”

“Botez,” she snaps. “Chief Advisor Botez.”

“Alright, Advisor. We’ll go to the meeting room and we’ll talk there. Now chill.”

“There’s no time to waste,” she’s complaining, but he doesn’t stop for a minute. They reach the room in mere moments, anyway, and he sits down at the first chair available. 

“So,” he says, reaching for his glasses inside his pockets. “Tell me about it.”

She all but shoves the letter towards him. It was hastily wrapped with red string - from Schlatt, then. He pulls the knot undone, unfurls the letter, and reads.

Everything feels very cold, out of nowhere, like winter has just arrived. He reads it, over and over again, just to be completely certain he is not making it all up somehow. It’s Schlatt’s very own handwriting, messy and disastrous (how fortunate he is to know it so intimately).

“What?,” he mutters, drowning in disbelief, and his voice cracks. He looks up at Botez, eyes wide. Looking at her now, _actually_ looking at her, he sees the deep sorrow behind her masked expression. His heart drops. “This— this is a _joke,_ right? He’s just pranking me.”

“I’m afraid not,” she tells him. “I came here as fast as I could. The armies are already working through the capital and surrounding areas, but we’ll need to widen the search.”

His eyes drop back to the sheet of paper. “Is the King safe?,” he asks. 

“The security inside and around the castle has been greatly increased.”

“No, no. I mean, is he safe from himself.” Ted puts down the letter with hands too steady for the turmoil inside. He thinks of Schlatt’s dead stare during Minx’s funeral. “He’s the biggest danger to his own life, currently.” 

Botez’s glare softens at his words. “He’s with his Knight,” she tells him. “He will be safe.”

 _Good,_ Ted thinks. _One less thing to worry about._

“When did this happen? A day ago?”

“Two nights ago, sir. I came as fast as I could.”

He stands up then. She follows him out of the room and into the armory as they speak; he clutches the letter in his hands, thinking. He must prepare for the journey back to the palace, and _quickly,_ he presumes, but the Advisor stops him as he’s rushing to his chambers. 

“Not to the Capital,” she tells him. “We must retrieve Sir Dalgleish first.”

“Charlie?” It’s not an unexpected development for a mission of this magnitude, he reckons. The man is hard to pin down, but Ted is confident in his own abilities. He wonders who else they’re getting for this. Maybe Travis could sniff out the kid. “Who else is coming, just us two?”

“All of you,” Botez responds. Ted nods, grave. _Of course._ “The King thought it a good move, to reunite the Society for this. And the Council agreed.”

“Well, _that’s_ a bad omen if I’ve ever seen one,” he quips. Botez doesn’t laugh at all. Neither does Ted. It wasn’t a quip at all. “We leave in an hour,” he tells her. “Tell your crew to be ready.”

“No crew, sir, just you and me.”

“Then _be_ ready in an hour.”

Lord Theodore Nivison closes the door to his chambers as his King’s Advisor walks away. Both of them are determined, sharp, aware of the clock ticking against their necks. 

Sir Ted Nivison, Second Knight of the Lunch Society, is the man that leaves the manor an hour later, riding his mare into the sunset with Advisor Botez close by. And he leaves with a mission, as so desperately requested of him on that letter by his oldest friend:

 _Please,_ it begged. _Help me bring back my son._

**005**

When his door opens, Charlie already suspects who it could be. He doesn’t turn from his current task of outlining a map, something he’s grown quite proficient at in the last few years. No one ever bothers him here, right on the outskirts of L’manberg, and he wouldn’t have it any other way; only those who really, _really_ need his help ever dare venture out into these crazy ass wilds. 

Okay, sue him, he likes the dramatics. 

“Hey,” the visitor says. Charlie recognizes the voice; it would be physically impossible for him not to. “It’s been a while.” It hasn’t. It’s been like a week. What could have possibly happened in a _week?_ Honestly, this better be good. 

“Hi, Ted,” he replies. And then, he shifts. He doesn’t do it very often these days, since there’s no one around to mess with, but his old friend has provided him with an opportunity he just couldn’t let go of. So when he turns, looking just like Wilbur, he expects a laugh, or something, especially with the “beautiful day, innit?,” he lets out.

But Ted draws his sword. And Charlie reverts instantly. 

“What the fuck,” he blurts out. “Put— put that down. I was just joking.”

“I know,” Ted says, “but we don’t have time for that.”

He sheaths his sword again. “Thanks for ruining the mood,” Charlie mumbles. “What a way to greet a friend.”

“It’s been like a week.”

“A week and you’re already trying to kill me,” he mopes, “I dread to see how you react after a month of us all apart.”

“Can’t you be serious for once?,” Ted snaps. He shoves a piece of paper - crumpled and worn, as if read over a thousand times - in his general direction, and Charlie takes it from his hands. “That’s from Schlatt.”

“I can see that,” Charlie muses. He’d recognize the slanted l’s anywhere. But then he starts reading the letter, addressed to Ted and Charlie themselves.

( _My esteemed Theodore and Charlie, Knights of the Society,_

 _It is with great sorrow that I write this letter, so shortly after your departure from the Queen’s Burial; I shall keep it short, as the dire situation demands._ )

Now he understands why the letter is in such a state. “When?,” he grits out. “When did this happen?”

“When they got to me, it had been three days, and it took two days to get here. Wilbur took him two days after we left.”

 _That’s way too much time._ “Shit.” Charlie skims over the letter again. “Fucking seriously, Wil? Do we have kill on sight orders?”

“Don’t know. I’m guessing that’s what we’re discussing.” His friend then mutters: “personally, I‘m hoping for a yes,” and Charlie can’t say he disagrees. He goes to pick up his things, places the letter on his desk (right next to the map, now pretty fucking unimportant in comparison). “Seriously, taking away his son. That’s fucked.”

“Give me ten minutes,” he tells Ted. “I’m gonna get that motherfucker myself.”

Advisor Botez, as he is told, is waiting outside for them; the trip back to the capital awaits too, hanging even heavier in the air. But Charlie Dalgleish packs his bags nevertheless, grabs his daggers and puts on his armor, and he walks outside his cabin, fire burning inside his lungs.

“Let’s go,” he says, leaping onto his horse. “If we hurry, we can make it a day faster.”

“That’s the plan,” Advisor Botez says. “Thank you, Charlie.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” he shrugs. He glances at his watch (barely nine in the morning, sharp) and he just cannot resist it. “Come on, times are _a-changin’_.”

Ted groans and his mare breaks into a gallop. “Gods, not five days of this.”

“Then we better make it four!”

**008**

They make it back to the palace in three. They barely rested, if only for their rides’ sake, and watched as the country slowly fell into mass disarray as their journey progressed. The Prince is gone; if someone can just _take_ the Kingdom’s most important person and vanish, what is there left for everyone else? 

Some, Ted hears, even call it a punishment from the Gods. 

“That’s fucking bullshit,” Charlie grumbles. “Schlatt’s only crime so far has been, what, being twenty? He hasn’t even been king for long enough to make big changes!”

“Undermining the Court is a big change,” Botez says. “He and the Queen basically removed anyone too old-fashioned from it. And the Gods can be quite finicky.”

“Fucking idiots is what they are,” Ted says, instantly feeling the Gods grow angry through his connection to his Patron Celestial. Let them die mad about it, says he. He’s pretty fucking pissed as he is.

“Lord Nivison!”

“I’m right,” he says. _First his wife, then his child; why don’t you give him cancer or something while you’re at it, since you’re just so fucking angry at this orphan dude._

They lose two hours at a checkpoint right outside the capital. Not even the Advisor or their status as Knights of the Society can rush this, considering the kidnapper was the King’s most trusted friend. And that fucking stings; how come _none of them_ noticed?

This question plagues his mind the entire ride to the castle itself (another checkpoint, much shorter, follows), and even as they meet in the Lunch Hall, birthplace of the Society, he’s still ruminating over it. Botez leaves them then; she has much work to do, too, and much to think about. In the meantime, they get started themselves.

Travis is the next to arrive, just an hour after them. The shifter looks just as grim as Ted suspects he and Charlie do, and even though he attempts to lighten up the mood (as Travis does), it doesn’t really work the way it usually would.

The whole castle was already grieving before Tobias. Now, there’s this deadly silence threatening to choke everyone in the citadel. 

“Well, this is grim,” Ted mumbles. “I wish I could say it’s nice to see you.”

“Same,” Traves says. His ears hang low; Ted knows how far away he lives, and he wonders just how little rest they must’ve gotten to get here so quickly. “Wish we could hang out under better circumstances.”

He puts his bow by the round table, where Charlie has spread one of his maps, this one of the capital. Charlie leans in: “you’re looking for his escape route.”

“He somehow managed to evade _every single guard_ in the city _,_ ” Ted says. “The castle is dead in its center and Tobias’ room was completely surrounded. It makes no sense. He’s a bard, not a _miracle worker._ ”

“Minx had invisibility potions, maybe he took one?,” Travis chimes in.

Charlie shakes his head. “We thought that and checked. Her room is exactly as it had been before… before you know. Apparently not even Schlatt’s been in there.”

“Troublesome,” Ted says. “Maybe we’re missing something. This map’s accurate?”

“To the best of my knowledge, yes,” Charlie says. “But the castle has areas usually only Schlatt can enter, so it could be missing information.”

“Then it probably is,” he sighs. “Schlatt used to sneak out all the time. Maybe Wilbur knew how he did it.”

“He did,” another voice says. They turn towards the door; there stands Cooper, and by his side Noah, the two missing members of the round table. Noah is the one who spoke; he continues, as he steps forward, with this: “Quackity and Wilbur snuck out with him all the time as kids. Ask Connor, he’ll know about that.”

“Welcome back,” Ted greets them. Coop shrugs, already sipping from a glass of water. He looks rough; they must’ve cut through the Nether Lands to make it here faster, and that place is _not_ overly kind to people of the Sea, like a triton such as him. Noah is in way better shape, but the Nethers weren’t too good to the half-elf either. 

“You look like you just went through _hell,_ ” Charlie says. Cooper glares at him.

“Niki said Schlatt won’t be joining us right now,” he tells them, choosing to ignore Charlie’s stupid ass joke. “He’s not doing too hot, I guess.” Charlie resists the urge to snicker at the unintentional pun.

“Duh,” Traves says. “I don’t see how anyone could be, after all this.”

They’re all quiet, for a moment. The reality of the situation sets in. They’re back, together, not as friends but as a team, working together for their King. Just like when they first joined forces, back when Schlatt was newly crowned. They have no real leads; it’s been too long, and the armies have not found a single place where Wilbur could’ve gone. By this point, he must be out of the country entirely.

“What do we do?,” Ted asks, mostly to himself, but the entire Society looks at him all the same. “How in the hell are we gonna find the kid?”

But they have to try anyway.

(This is the first letter: the Summoning.

_My esteemed Theodore and Charlie, Knights of the Society,_

_My esteemed Travis, Knight of the Society,_

_My esteemed Noah and Cooper, Knights of the Society,_

_It is with great sorrow that I write this letter, so shortly after your departure from the Queen’s Burial; I shall keep it short, as the dire situation demands. One of our very own, Wilbur Soot, has stolen Prince Tobias away; it seems he waited until you all had gone away, the bastard. The armies have been ordered to search for them both but I refuse to take any chances._

_I request your aid in finding the fugitive and rescuing the Prince. You are to come to the palace immediately, where we will reunite the Society and discuss further plans of action based on whatever information is available. This could turn into a campaign longer than anticipated - may the Gods be merciful; be prepared for a longer stay at the palace than usual._

_I am asking this as both your friend, I hope, and as your King._ ~~_I don’t know_~~

~~_I hope that_ ~~

_I know this is a lot to ask, which is why you won’t be penalized, should you decide not to come. No one will judge you for your decision._

_I’m sorry it has come to this. I await your arrival. Please, help me bring back my son._

_Yours, until the death of the Sky,_

_as sworn underneath the August Sun,_

~~_King to the L’manberg Empire_ ~~

_Your friend_

_Schlatt._ )

They don’t even see Schlatt until very late into the night. He had not presented himself at the throne room for the last ten days, just like he hadn’t the week Minx had passed. They meet with Connor first, and the Treasurer shows them, behind a bookcase, a hidden passage right in Tobias’ room that leads straight to the _outside_ of the city walls. Charlie wants to die. Of course, Schlatt’s childhood room had become Tobias’. Why did no one know of this? 

They dine in silence in the mass hall, which is saying a lot, considering it’s _them_. Schlatt isn’t there, but Niki is. She looks exhausted; apparently, just a few nights after the kidnapping, the King fell ill. “He just broke down a little,” she quickly amends, after they all stand up and ask for him. “Nothing to really worry about, he’s already fine. But after that, he’s just refused to leave his room. You should go see him after the meal, I’m sure he’ll appreciate that.”

For whatever reason, her words don’t make Ted feel any better. Schlatt isn’t exactly the paragon of good health; even in their youth, sometimes he’d have bouts of random sickness that left him bedridden for weeks, and the slightest cold could have catastrophic results. So as soon as they’re done, they follow her to his chambers. His real room, across Minx’s, has been desolate ever since her passing, as if the mere thought of being _near_ it made him want to shrivel up and die (and it probably did). He’s been staying in a guest room by their own wing, holed up in there for more than a week now. Two guards stand by the door; the familiar faces of Punz and Purpled soften when they see them, letting them pass.

The first thing they notice, unfortunately, is the strong scent of whiskey. 

The curtains are drawn close. There’s no candles lit, and only a small glowstone lantern lights up the complete darkness that envelopes the room. The room itself is a disaster: there’s clothes and items thrown all over the floor, and the vanity’s mirror has been shattered, though no shards of it are visible, so they figure someone must’ve picked them up. Quackity is sitting on the bed, looking as disheveled as everyone else in the damn kingdom, and his wings envelop a lump underneath the bed sheets - that must be Schlatt.

“Be quiet,” Quackity whispers softly. “He finally agreed to try and fall asleep.”

The Knight’s been a constant in Schlatt’s life since before even them, so it’s hard not to trust him. He’d been there for the King through the fire and the flames, through death and survival. And now, he’s there as he crumbles. He’s the one person they would trust around their friend right now. 

Then again, Wilbur had also been like Quackity. 

They all approach carefully and sit on the bed. Quackity shifts his wings away, and the lump that is the king shifts a little. “He’s been drinking all day,” the Knight tells them. “Honestly, I’m kinda glad you’re all back, I don’t know what to do anymore. I’m so fucking scared.”

Travis leans down next to the lump. “Hello!,” he says. “Is anyone in there?”

“Go away,” comes the muffled response. 

“Nope. We’re all here, and we’re all very annoying.”

Schlatt sighs from underneath the blankets. “I’m too sober for this,” he admits. Charlie glances at the empty bottles by the bedside and feels nauseous. 

“Wanna come out, buddy?,” Ted asks him. “We all traveled a really long way to see you, you know.”

“Not particularly.”

“ _You_ were the one that summoned _us,_ ” Cooper reminds him. “C’mon, man. We know it’s been rough.”

Schlatt doesn’t respond. Quackity runs a hand over the lump, where they guess his head is given the horns. “It’s okay,” he whispers, “we’re all here for you.”

They all sit there, waiting. And when the King finally peeks out from underneath his refuge, looking like multiple trains just ran him over, they immediately soften. 

“Don’t do that,” Schlatt croaks, already looking away. “Don’t— don’t give me pity. This is just a hiccup. I’m fine. I’m _handling_ it.”

His eyes are red-rimmed, dark circles prominent underneath them. He hasn’t shaved in a while - probably since the funeral, if they recall correctly - and it shows. He’s trembling, and very cold to the touch; Noah takes off his coat and wraps it around his shoulders. Traves reaches for his hand, cupping it in between his own two. 

“I didn’t think you’d all come,” the King confesses, barely a whisper. “You already stayed a month, and you’re all busy, so I thought—“

“Nah, dude,” Ted says. “It’s not time wasted if it’s time spent with you.”

“Yeah!,” Charlie agrees. “Besides, no one steals our little godson and gets away with it. We’re here to stay if need be.”

Schlatt lets out a shaky laugh, curling onto himself. Quackity wraps his arms around him, and he sinks into them almost instantly. “Gods damn it,” he whimpers, sounding almost mad, “I didn’t want to cry anymore,” and the dam breaks. Were it anyone else and it would be a miserable sight; Schlatt has always been an ugly crier, after all. But they promised him no pity, no shame. And so they all join into the hug, enveloping their friend in the overwhelming warmth, and the King weeps, and weeps, into his brothers’ embrace. 

**010**

They spend the ninth day since Tobias’ disappearance inside the castle, planning their further advances, so the tenth is spent scouting beyond the city walls. Ten days is an awfully long time, Cooper thinks. Wilbur must be long gone, and with him, their chances of finding the Prince. But they can’t just simply give up like that. So Cooper rides into the forest, past the fields, heading south, and searches in every crack in the ground and every sliver of land, but nothing turns up. 

When he returns to the castle in the evening, everyone reports the same results. 

“It was worth a shot,” Noah says. “He could’ve been hiding in plain sight this entire time.”

“It’s clear he’s not,” Ted counters. He is covered in dried mud. Cooper yearns to know where the idiot fell off his horse. “At least not anymore. We need to start thinking big.”

“How big?”

“We could ask the other countries to help us look,” Travis chimes in. “Like, Justea is already searching. We could ask the Essempeans, the Badlanders, the Newfounders, and we go like that. We have allies.”

Ted sighs. “We do, but they’re not gonna spend resources on us like that. Justea is only already looking because Minx was _born_ there.”

“Then we make them,” Cooper says. 

They all turn to him. “What are you saying?,” Charlie asks. “We can’t just wage war against _everyone._ ”

“Not everyone. We propose a peaceful alliance first; if they agree, they are annexed to L’manberg and that’s that. But if they don’t, we take over. We have the numbers,” Coop remarks, “and it’s the only way we will have any hope of ever getting him back.”

“Just think about this for a second,” Ted says. “Last war we had was _against_ the Essempeans and the country barely survived as it is. Is this really our last resort?”

“Would be the fastest,” Noah agrees. 

“You can’t be serious. Schlatt has to sign this off, too, you know? We can’t _go to war_ without his permission, and even if the Council is mostly a charade now I doubt they’ll agree to this.”

“You’d be surprised what they agree with, Ted,” Traves says.

“Not you too.”

“Let’s take a vote,” he suggests. “And then we ask J Money.”

(These are the results of the anonymous vote taken by the Society.

_For - 3_

_Against - 2_ )

**011**

It’s Cooper’s idea, so he’s the one to talk to Schlatt, even if everyone else is there by his side. He still hasn’t left his room, but they spent half the morning helping Quackity and Connor clean it up, so at least it’s livable, and the curtains are drawn open too.

(Schlatt looks so pale. Has he always looked like this?)

“Do whatever it takes,” the King says, after a sigh. “You know I trust your judgement.”

“You probably shouldn’t,” Ted mutters under his breath, “but what do I know.”

“Well, he trusts _you,_ so that says a lot,” Charlie says.

It’s the first attempt at a smile they’ve seen from Schlatt in a long, long time.

The Court, perhaps more surprisingly, also agrees.

“We trust you,” Niki, Head of the Court, tells them. “You’re the ones that helped us survive the Siege during the last war and then led the kingdom to prosperity, and you were only teenagers at the time. You’re not folk heroes for no reason.”

“I’m concerned about the King’s mental state possibly influencing this decision,” Advisor Botez says. “Are you sure this is the best move?”

“It’s the best we have,” Noah says, earnest.

“Very well,” Niki says. “We will discuss this further and tell you our decision tomorrow, but honestly, I think we’re mostly on board.”

Connor gives them a thumbs up as they walk out. 

**015**

(Formal letter addressed to the leaders of the nations neighboring L’manberg.

_Respected Kings, Queens and Leaders of the Essempee Kingdom, the Badlands and Newfoundland:_

_L’manberg has prided itself, throughout its history, on being a land based on cooperation and dignity; we are a country of opportunities and, when possible, we reach out to help our neighbors._

_When the Badlands’ drought season devastated the crops, L’manberg donated food and aided the ill and impoverished._

_During the war against Essempee, L’manberg never mistreated a single prisoner, never executed one either; the same can’t be said vice versa._

_When Newfoundland was hurt by terror attacks, L’manberg provided emergency aid and some of our best warriors even volunteered for the cause._

_Now, in our time of need, we have been forced to ask your nations for help. Prince Tobias, as is known across the land, was captured just a few weeks back, taken by the fugitive Wilbur Soot. We humbly request your help in capturing the criminal and returning him alive to our country - alongside, hopefully, our Lost Son; we would be more than willing to lend our own soldiers in the search._

_We ask, again, for your solidarity and cooperation - grateful in advance for anything you can give us._

_Until the death of the Sky,_

_King J. Schlatt of L’manberg._ )

**037**

“Nothing yet,” Cooper informs them. “Noah and Charlie are moving forward.”

Schlatt works in the garden, carefully snipping at Minx’s rose bushes. He’s let the plants get far too overgrown, and it’s about time they get a little haircut. So he maneuvers around the flowers and snips. Quackity stands by his side, holding the flowers Schlatt’s been collecting. Cooper is kneeling before them, in a way that feels too formal for Quackity, but that he understands is just protocol - a protocol they’ve been so blatantly ignoring for too long. 

The news is discouraging, but Quackity never really expected much better. Newfoundland had been the only country to agree to their cooperation, so they are to go ahead with the _conquest_ part of their plan there. 

“Alright,” is all the King says. “Then keep going.”

“Sure.”

**042**

(Private correspondence between His Highness, the King of Manberg ( _no longer taking any Ls_ ), and his First Knight.

_Quackity,_

_Sorry for disappearing without warning. I know you worry._ _It was mean of me, ~~but I just~~_ ~~_I needed_~~

 _Noah requested help by the Badlands. I’ve been sitting on my ass for far too long; I had to go out and help him. You’re welcome to join us if you’re not too mad at me still (please join us) (I am so cold) (why are the Badlands_ _cold _ _?, what a cruel joke of fate); it’s been awfully lonely without you._

_I miss you. If you tell anyone I wrote that, I’ll have your head._

_Schlatt._

_Mi amor,_

_I’m gonna beat the shit out of you when I get there, you hear me?_

_Big Q._ )

**074**

Schlatt lays in his makeshift bed, late at night, eyes wide open. He tries not to blink. His horns keep getting tangled in the pillows. 

“Psst,” he whispers. “Hey, Quackity.”

His Knight is fast asleep, his own sleeping cot just a few feet apart. His wings are wrapped against his body after the genius broke them during battle. He wonders how that must feel, having a part of you strapped immobile against you.

His heart squeezes (perhaps he should get that checked). He remembers Travis shooting Quackity’s opponent dead from afar, but it had already been too late. He remembers the blood-curdling scream, even through the roar of the battlefield and the ringing of his ears. He remembers the way he hadn’t let go of his friend’s hand the entire time.

He considers, for a moment, waking him, if only to calm his anxieties, but chooses against it. The Knight deserves his rest, after all.

And it’s not like just Quackity is the source of all his fears.

(Ted’s having problems with the Sulake Siege; maybe they should pay him a visit. Coop's last letter was from two days ago. Travis has a concussion and his hands shiver every time he reaches for an arrow. He hasn’t heard from the others in a week.)

The King lays in his makeshift bed, late at night, eyes wide open. He doesn’t attempt to close them.

**086**

(Private correspondence between Lord Nivison and Lord Dalgleish, Knights of the Society.

_Charlie,_

_Don’t be a fucking idiot. That’s all I’m saying. If we don’t take P’ogtopia we’ll lose that entire potential area, and the possibility of blocking the Antarctica trade routes. You_ _need_ _to move your troops in, now, before the opportunity passes; you have more than enough resources. Let’s not have a repeat of the Badlands._

_Long Live Schlong,_

_Ted_

_Ted,_

_Alright, I fucking get it. Moving to take P’ogtopia now. If I fuck it up it’s on you!_

_I would let Schlatt in a Wig destroy me,_

_Charlie_

_Charlie,_

_You weird ass motherfucker, I can't believe you still remember that. We were like twelve dude._

_Shaming you,_

_Ted_ )

**097**

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?,” Travis asks him. He looks like a sad, kicked puppy. “I could go with you.”

“It’s fine,” Schlatt says. He looks so pale. His hands shiver against Traves’. “They need you here. _I_ need you here.”

“I guess,” he shrugs. He catches a glimpse of Quackity, who doesn’t seem that convinced either. “Can you tell Connor I said hi?”

“We will, man, we will,” Quackity says. “Promise. See you soon.”

The second Travis is out of sight, as they ride through the fields towards home, Schlatt slumps inwards and coughs into his sleeve. Quackity almost misses the red speckling his dark shirt. “Fuck,” he rasps out, taking the water bottle Quackity hands him. “We need to get going.”

**102**

(Letters addressed to the Knights of the Society.

_Esteemed Knight who reads this,_

_You are to report back at the Manbergian capital as soon as possible. The King has fallen ill and requests your presence._

_Until the death of the Sky,_

_Senator Charles._

_Knights of the Society,_

_Schlatt got very sick again. Niki is trying her best, but it’s not looking good. Without an heir shit’s gonna go down. We need you all here, now._

_Connor._

_To Schlatt’s friends,_

_Please come back home. His fever won’t break and I don’t know if he’s gonna make it. He needs you with him._

_Quackity._ )

**103**

Ted heard of the news almost as they happened. He wishes he hadn’t; he wishes they were just a bad joke, but he gets the letter just an hour later and another hour after that he’s galloping back to the capital, just enough in his satchel to feed him on the trip. He leaves the Callahan kid in charge; he’ll do fine, he thinks, holding the front, and it’s just a few days anyway. 

He hopes, at least.

He urges his girl to run faster, and begs his patron to help him.

 _Gods fucking damn it, Schlatt,_ he’s thinking. _Not you too._

(Correspondence between Knights Charlie and Travis of the Society.

_I hate this, Charlie. I hate feeling useless. What is going on with him? He keeps getting sick and I don’t think it’s just the grief anymore. He’s such an idiot._

_It’s gonna be okay. We’ll get there and he’s gonna be goofing around like before all this. You’ll see I‘m right!!!_ )

**104**

They all sit by his bedside and watch his chest rise, then fall, then rise. Quackity is staring into his feverish eyes; with a damp cloth, he reaches and wipes off Schlatt’s forehead, dripping with sweat and burning to the touch.

“‘m glad you’re all here,” the King mumbles, delirious, leaning into his Knight’s cool touch for a moment. “So glad. This is so cool. It’s a sleep _over._ ”

It’s not cool at all. They have slept, all seven of them combined, like an hour. It’s a vigil, a fucking watching over so they can at least be there if their friend kicks the bucket. 

Still, Quackity says, “yeah, mi amor. It’s a sleepover. We’re all here with you.”

 _Don’t die,_ they’re all thinking. _Don’t you dare die._

“I love you all,” Schlatt says, then. His words crack at the end. And he’s fast asleep once more. 

_Don’t you fucking die,_ they all think. 

They watch his chest fall, then rise, then fall; they don’t sleep much at all. 

**105**

The fever’s dropped by morning, thank the gods. Unfortunately, this means Schlatt is coherent enough to try and downplay it. 

“It was just a scare,” he insists, even as they all stand there, sleep deprived and angry. “And I’m fine, so it’s alright.”

Ted doesn’t know how to explain it to him; he’s not sure any of them does, for that matter. For all his lordship and his knowledge and his links to the Sky, all Ted knows right now is that he wants to slap the shit out of his brother. 

“It’s not funny, Schlatt,” Travis says. “You almost died.”

“But I _didn’t,_ what’s the big deal?”

“You’re a fucking asshole,” Quackity says, refusing to look at him.

(Quackity looks over Schlatt as he sleeps. If he stops breathing for a moment, it’s all over.)

“You were throwing up blood,” Cooper snarls. 

“No I wasn’t.”

“Dude! Niki literally told us you were! You were _hallucinating!_ ”

( _First his wife, then his child; why don’t you give him cancer or something while you’re at it, since you’re just so fucking angry at this orphan dude._ )

“We are not fucking ready to lose you,” Charlie tells him. There’s rage behind his eyes. Schlatt doesn’t cower from it, only glaring back. “The kingdom isn’t fucking ready. We would collapse. Who the hell’s gonna rule, huh? _Kacey?_ ”

“Ted’s my next in line,” Schlatt shrugs off. “The kingdom can do _better_ than me.”

“You’re fucking unbearable,” Ted snaps.

“I’d have thought you were fucking used to it, baby.”

“What about the war?,” Charlie says. “What about Tobias?”

Schlatt has the audacity to laugh. “‘What about Tobias’, he’s saying. Let’s fucking face it, Charlie, he’s probably dead in whatever ditch Wilbur left him in. Whatever it was he fucking wanted me to suffer for he _succeeded_ and got away with it.”

(“Don’t do that,” Schlatt croaks, already looking away. “Don’t— don’t give me pity.)

“If you died,” Travis finally picks up. “If you died, we’d miss you.”

The King stops, then. Looks at him. “What?”

“You’re not dispensable, you know? We… we care about you. _We_ are not ready to lose you. As in, _us._ Charlie just didn’t wanna say it.”

They’re all staring at him now. Travis wipes at his face and sighs.

( _I hate feeling useless._ )

 _Say something,_ Schlatt’s conscience is telling him. _Fucking say something before you ruin this even more._

He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it, because. What. What the hell does that even mean?

“But,” he stammers, “I’m just. What?”

(Schlatt looks so pale. Has he always looked like this?)

“You’re an idiot,” Noah tells him. “Don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying,” Schlatt says. He’s not. He’s _not._ “I don’t— Why?”

“He said it already,” Quackity says, like there’s sludge inside his throat. “We _care,_ you fucking idiot. We love you.”

(If he stops breathing, for just a second...)

“I’m sorry,” is all Schlatt can say.

They all end up piling on top of him. He does not cry. 

(The King lays in his bed, late at night, eyes wide open. His friends are asleep right by his side. He doesn’t attempt to close them.)

The war will continue for years on end.

**-003**

A child’s wails break through the roar of his nursery. His father shushes his companions, exhausted as they all are; the babe in his arms is hungry.

“I’ve got it,” Cooper says. He’s got a milk bottle in his hands, and with care he places it in his brother’s hand. The King’s eyes, immensely sad yet thankful, meet his own.

“Thanks,” he whispers. As the child is fed, the King sighs. “You’re so needy,” he tells the boy, loving. “At least you’re gonna be prettier than the cats.”

As if on queue, Cornelius climbs on top of the chair he’s sitting on and mewls, demanding attention. Charlie picks him up before he can scratch the little Prince, and says, “that’s not a very high standard. Look at this thing.”

“Agreed,” Quackity yawns. “But it’s a bar little Turbo will _easily_ beat.”

That _is_ true, at least. 

“I know you have to go soon,” the King says, then. “But I’m just… I’m glad you guys came. And stayed. Thank you.”

“Schlatt, you idiot,” they say. “For you, we would stay forever,” they say.

He holds onto his friends, his brothers in arms, careful not to crush his son in their embrace, and truly believes things might start looking up again soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which i couldn't just not make a lunch club chapter. never expect anything this long again. my hubris overwhelms me  
> next chapter is already written but oh my god i need a bit of a breather to get started on the one after that. ill prob post on thursday or friday
> 
> Edit (1/5/2021): the world has progressed past the need for carson king, so i have deleted his ass from my fic. im not letting him ruin it for me. this day has been shitty enough as it is.


	6. like God's own tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in the farm, from a child's point of view.

Fundy knows he’s weird. Lowkey, he’s always sort of known. His uncles say it, the townsfolk say it, heck, even the  _ fairies  _ floating about say it. He’s a weird kid. If the fox ears weren’t strange enough, then his constant bickering with beings only he could see probably gave everyone enough of an indicator to stay away. 

He sits by the fields, watching his family work. He wants to help so badly, but Uncle Tommy says he’s too little, and he already helps a lot with his music, so he’s stuck there until he’s older. But this is so,  _ so boring.  _ He’d rather go into the woods and play with the creatures by the creek, but Uncle Techno doesn’t want him going there by himself (though he’s not sure why - the pixies gift him flowers and the imps help him play pranks on the undines that live in the lake, but they’d never, ever hurt him, because miss Titania had promised him so), so he has to sit here all afternoon, and he sighs, clutching at the toy lute Phil had made him. He plucks at the strings tiredly and wishes his dad would finish already so they can go play together. 

His dad is weird, just like him, so that’s at least reassuring. Sometimes, dad will stare at nothing, like he’s listening for something, and Fundy will hear windchimes in the distance. Sometimes, dad’s lute doesn’t sound like music at all, but he’s still able to replicate it without much issue. Sometimes, he can’t hear his dad at all, over the screaming of the Voices that surround him. 

Uncle Techno has a Voice, too. And Uncle Dream, too, when he comes to visit. Their Voices are nicer than his dad’s, and they listen to him when he tells them to stop, and they sit around the garden table for the tea parties he organizes for the sprites and fairies. 

(“What are you doing?,” Uncle Tommy asks him, watching him play into seemingly thin air. 

“Serving tea,” he replies, stating the obvious.

Uncle Techno’s Voice is an odd blob of a being; it can’t even sip on the cold drink, not really. Still, Fundy asks, “one or two sugars?”, because it would be rude not to, and the Voice says,  _ the souls of the innocent,  _ and Uncle Dream’s Voice says, and it smells like ashes,  _ two sugars, dear. _ )

Uncle Techno’s Voice sometimes says very scary things, but Fundy’s sure it doesn’t mean to spook him, because it always apologizes afterwards. Uncle Dream’s Voice, when it is around, is calmer, but only on the surface; it always feels like something is about to explode around it. Fundy doesn’t really mind that much, as long as they are kind to each other and leave sugar for Titania and Milo, the kind merman that lived with the lake undines. 

(Uncle Tommy raises an eyebrow as Fundy nibbles on a cookie and laughs at something the fairies around the tea set said. Sometimes his uncles will look at him like he’s an enigma. That’s okay; he knows he’s weird.)

He plucks at one of the strings, pensive, and worries his tongue against the gap left by his missing right front tooth. He pulls at the string and releases it with purpose, with a rhythm; he follows the sound of Uncle Tubbo tilling the ground. He likes Uncle Tubbo quite a lot. He doesn’t know about the sharp metallic scent of magic around him, or that the way plants curl up into him when he walks by, ever so discreet, isn’t normal; Uncle Tubbo is just his uncle: he works hard, works good, and plays with him when he’s bored. Uncle Tubbo reads him and Amara books. Uncle Tubbo loves his family. Uncle Tubbo is a boy like him, and like Uncle Tommy, and that’s a good thing, he thinks. Uncle Tubbo works the land, now, and Fundy plucks at his lute, a one-note melody that beats steady into the setting sun. 

Uncle Techno’s Voice screams, from far away. No one but Fundy seems to hear it. It says,  _ we should kill the entire town.  _ Uncle Techno mumbles something in response, too low for anyone else to hear. Fundy plays the single lute note a little faster, until it falls out of sync with Uncle Tubbo and, frustrated, has to start over. 

_ Thonk.  _ He plays the same note, over and over again.  _ Thonk. Thonk. Thonk.  _ A little forest spirit sits by his side and listens. He doesn’t mind it.  _ Thonk. Thonk. Thonk.  _

“Hey, Fundy.” The voice snaps him from his daze and he looks up to his father. The sun is about to set, now, and it’s getting cold. His dad crouches next to him, and his smile is warm, like hot chocolate. The Voices are nowhere to be heard. “Having fun?”

“Mm,” Fundy mumbles, noncommittally, and hugs his lute. “Bored.”

His dad nods. “That’s alright. Hey, wanna go to the creek together? I bet we can get back before nighttime.”

Fundy’s ears twitch. His boredom quickly melts into excitement and he leaps up, eyes wide. He’d thought they’d have to wait until tomorrow, with how late it was getting. “Really?”

“Really.” And then his dad carries him in his arms, puts him over his shoulders. Fundy is  _ delighted; _ the toy lute, forgotten on the stone bricks, will be picked up by Phil while they’re gone. “I owe the shrine a visit, anyway. Show me the way, little man!”

Fundy squeals and points forward. The little spirit settles on his own shoulder, and all is good and all is forgiven. 

“Be careful!,” Uncle Tommy shouts, already getting smaller and smaller. His dad throws him a thumbs up. Fundy waves at him, at Uncle Tubbo and Uncle Techno, and sighs, contented, as they vanish into the woods. 

Fundy really likes going to the creek. Alone or with his dad, it doesn’t really matter; his friends are here, all over the place, and he darts around like a little pixie, chasing dragonflies and spirits alike. He hops on a stone and watches, mesmerized, as the tadpoles swim in a calmer branch of the stream. He listens intently to the whispers of the forest. He tries not to stray too far from his father, as they’re close to the shrine. Fundy likes the shrine, too. It’s small, carved into the stone walls of the tiny waterfall that feeds the creek and the pond, and there’s always pretty flowers blooming around it that glow with a power he can’t yet put into words. He understands that this is important: they come here every week or so and pray, which to Fundy means just standing there with his eyes closed thinking about what Phil is gonna make for supper. Still, his heart gallops in anticipation. Maybe today he’ll see her again. 

They’ve reached it, now. His dad takes care in watering the flowers, placing a small silver coin on the mossy pedestal. “Let’s pray, Fundy,” he beckons. And so Fundy closes his eyes. 

_ Dear God of the Forest,  _ he starts, but he’s getting awfully hungry from all the exploring he’s been doing, and focusing is really hard, anyway.  _ I like your creek. I think it should have more candy. Do you think Phil will make pie today? _

“Dear God of the Forest,” his dad whispers, distracting Fundy; he opens one of his eyes by an inch, and when he finds his dad’s eyes are closed, just blinks his own open wide. His dad is speaking like there’s something lodged in his throat, which is weird, because you’re not supposed to speak at all when you pray to the Forest, at least, he doesn’t  _ think so.  _ “Dear God of the Forest, please protect us from harm.”

And that is when Fundy sees her. The woman in the white dress. He recognizes her instantly and squeaks. 

She is standing there, in the creek, the water reaching up to her calves. Her hair, dotted with wildflowers, seems to glow like fire in the golden hour. Her smile reaches her emerald eyes, making them wrinkle by the edges. 

He leaves his dad’s side and runs to her. 

“Mama!”

His mother laughs, catching him in her arms when he leaps at her. His dad turns and watches. 

_ “Look at how you’ve grown,”  _ she speaks with her soft Voice, like the rustling of leaves and the growl of a bear and the song of a mockingbird.  _ “Soon you’ll be as tall as a tree!” _

He laughs, taking in her whole being. She smells like flowers and candy. She runs warm, like sunlight. He’d missed her quite a lot. 

She looks at his dad, then. _ “Hi, Wil,” _ she greets him. Her Voice drips of honey and lullabies. 

“Sally,” he greets back. The fondness in his eyes is hard to miss. Fundy doesn’t really care; he’s too busy melting into his mother’s embrace. “It’s been a while.”

_ “Oh, dearest, you have no idea.”  _ Her hand reaches forward, softly petting behind her son’s ears, and Fundy sighs, in complete bliss.  _ “The wars have been quite devastating to my domains.” _

“Sorry to hear that.” He does sound very sorry. Sad. Sorrowful. Fundy doesn’t know what sorrowful means, but the spirits around him use that word a lot; he’ll ask Uncle Tommy when they get home. 

_ “Everyone’s doing okay?” _

“Yeah. I mean, Techno sprained his leg last week, but he’s okay now. And you can see how Fundy is.”

_ “Yes,”  _ she laughs. Fundy loves his mom’s laughter. She presses a kiss against his forehead and a thousand blessings burn through him.  _ “I can see my little prince.” _

“I lost my first tooth!,” Fundy tells her, showing off his teeth. Upon spotting the gap, she gasps dramatically. 

_ “My, did you remember to put it under your pillow?” _

“Yep! I got a coin like you said!”

His mother laughs again, fondly. He doesn’t notice the knowing look she shoots at his father.  _ “Soon you’ll have a fortune,”  _ she tells Fundy.  _ “Sweet sunset.”  _ She places him down on the grass and he bounces in his spot, brimming with energy from a whole day of not much.  _ “It’s alright, you can go play now. We’ll be right here.” _

And then he’s off again, into the woods, while his parents talk. Fundy loves his mom and dad, but he thinks their conversations are so boring, and he’s had enough boredom for a  _ lifetime.  _ So he runs, deeper and deeper, yet never straying too far from the creek and the shrine. He follows a rabbit around, plays with a bear and her cubs, hide-and-seek with the fairies; he runs through the creek and swims with the little fish and maybe even catches a bug or two. By the time his dad calls for him, he needs a deer to take him back, exhausted as he is. And the sun has already set. He yawns and lets his dad lift him from the deer’s horns and into his arms, with only a “you’re getting heavy” as a complaint and his mom’s soft sigh into his head. 

_ “Be good,”  _ she tells him, as she kisses his cheek,  _ “yes, Floris? Don’t give your uncles too much trouble.” _

“Yes, ma,” he mumbles. He doesn’t like it when she has to go, but he understands. Dad had told him; her job as an accountant in the big city is  _ so  _ very important. Man, he’s so sleepy now. “I lov’ you.”

_ “I love you too, my little prince.”  _ She tiptoes and kisses his dad on the lips (ew!) and says to him:  _ “see you soon, my loves.” _

“Soon, I hope,” his dad echoes. “Say goodbye to your mother, Fundy.”

“Bye,” he says. He hides into his dad’s shirt but watches her as she walks away - one, two steps into the woods, and by the third he blinks and she’s vanished into thin air. His little heart squeezes. 

“Don’t be so sad,” his dad consoles him, like he doesn’t know Fundy can tell he’s upset too. “Mom will be back before you know it.”

“Mmfmf,” he speaks into his dad’s shoulder and doesn’t elaborate.

That night, right after being tucked into bed, Fundy gets up anyway. He can’t sleep, not with all the noise from the Voices right outside his door, even less considering the nap he took while being carried home by his dad. He tiptoes towards the window he can’t yet reach, pushing a chair against the wall, and climbing it so he can look outside. It’s a fresh evening; peaceful, calm.

The wind rustles against the trees, brushes through the wheat fields and the orchard. The crickets and the frogs sing their lullabies. The moon glows, bright and silver, above his head.

And beyond the sounds of the wild, as if woven into its very melody, he hears it, in a Voice no one else can hear. He hears it as clearly as he always has, every single night since he can remember. He leans against the windowsill, closes his eyes, and focuses on it, the other noises soon fading.

Fundy knows he’s weird. But he doesn’t mind it all that much. At least, being like this, he can listen to his mother sing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> little baby demigod fundy lets gooo pog
> 
> im a bit conflicted here. hear me out.  
> next chapter can either be extremely fluffy, or it can be really painful. like, torture painful. like, i'm debating whether or not to even finish it because if i make it canon i can't ever, EVER redeem ted from it. or maybe make it milder?  
> i'd love to hear your thoughts. :p


	7. a perfect halo of gold hair and lightning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tubbo comforts Tommy after a bad dream.

He is watching his best friend die. His blood splatters against his brother’s face as the madman laughs, possessed by forces above him. His other brother and his in-law watch too, horrified. Above them, the southern lights flare to life, blue and violet thrumming to the beat of a faltering heart. 

“Tommy—“ 

His best friend is reaching out for him. His face is the perfect expression of despair and terror. 

His brother strikes again. Tobias doesn’t make it a step further and drops dead. 

That is when the gold explodes. 

The gold burns through his soul, overwhelms it, consumes it. The gold eats through his skin and floods the world around it. 

His brother doesn’t stand a chance: the righteous anger fuels his body, puppeteers it almost, and the Hero draws his sword, glowing holy golden as well. His brother has no time to react, to defend himself; the silver glow around his soul dies at the same time his heart stops beating, punctured by the Hero’s blade. 

“ _ No! _ ”

His other brother — the first, the eldest, he’s the first to react. He pushes the Hero aside. The holy sword drips blood and aurora. His brother’s soulmate rushes to the dead body of the— the  _ vessel— _

_ Wilbur,  _ something within the Hero screams. 

His eyes burn into his dead best friend. The cry of anguish dies in his throat. 

He bleeds gold, drowns in it. The first and third vessels stand there, his fated enemies. He will avenge his friend. No matter the cost. 

The Hero steps forward. 

“I always knew you’d be the one,” the Blade chokes out, pride drenching his words. “I’m so proud of you.”

The Hero of Legend is crying. His sword, blessed by the Gods, buries itself deeper into the Blade’s stomach, and he weeps as he seals his brother’s fate. 

“I’m sorry,” he begs, “I’m so sorry, Technoblade, I’m sorry.” His hands are stained with the blood of his siblings, and now they forever will be. The Child of the Sky, he was the first to go; he still lays there, on the scorched battlefield, next to the dead Prince he’d been forced to kill. 

And that’s the issue, the Hero thinks. That’s all there is to it. None of them had a fucking say in the matter. They’re all just stupid pieces in the world’s most pointless game of chess. It’s not fucking  _ fair,  _ and maybe that’s childish of him, but  _ come the fuck on,  _ he’s standing in a burning field surrounding by his dead family. He used to dream about this moment as a child: a world on fire, the duel at its end, and him holding his brother in his arms as he dies by his own doing. He always thought they were just that, horrible dreams. 

His hands are painted crimson. He should’ve known better. 

“It’s not fair, no,” the Blade whispers. His blood seeps into the ground - a prophecy fulfilled. His head sways to the side, and the Hero doesn’t need to follow his gaze to know he’s staring at the body of the Conqueror, felled just moments earlier, mask cracked apart and shattered on the floor. “It’s never fair when it’s Their will.”

“I’m so fucking sorry,” the Hero weeps. “I never wanted this.”

“You did good,” the Blade reassures him. His fingers grasp his little brother’s, red on red on stained golden. He doesn’t make him release the sword; he doesn’t think he could. “About time... someone took us all out.”

“I’m going to avenge you, Technoblade. I’m— I’m gonna kill the fucking Gods, I fucking  _ swear  _ on it, man.”

“Oh, little Theseus,” his brother laughs weakly, looking at him once again with so much love and respect and relief and it  _ hurts  _ so badly. “Technoblade never dies.”

“ _ Techno, _ ” the Hero cries. 

And he screams into his brother’s body. 

Tommy wakes with a start. He shoots up, gasping for air, as if he had been drowning in an ocean, struggling to reach the surface. The bed is not his own, too soft and plush, he doesn’t recognize the place, where is this,  _ where— _

Tubbo shifts beside him. His voice is rough with sleep. “Tommy? What’s wrong?” 

_ You’re in the castle,  _ his memory supplies. _You're with Tubbo._ _ You’re safe. Everyone’s safe.  _

His eyes burn into his best friend, right by his side. “I’m– I’m alright,” he tells him, unsure. “Just— had a bad dream, ‘s all.”

It’s the same dream, over and over again. The same awful nightmare, for as long as he can remember. Techno dying by his sword — when he was a child, the dream was distressing enough, what with all the gore and the blood and the sheer  _ agony  _ he felt. And then he had met Tubbo, and then Techno and Wil, and the dream had gained a new layer of terror:  _ what if it’s not a dream? _

“D’you wanna talk about it?” 

Tubbo’s curling into Tommy again. He’s warm against the early spring chill that seeps into the Prince’s room; Tommy tries to relax, just a little, but the tremors that run through his hands don’t settle down. 

_ His hands are drowning in red. Techno, Wilbur, Dream. His hands are red, red, red— _

“Tommy?”

He’s hyperventilating. He can’t focus. Fuck,  _ fuck!  _ He’s freaking Tubbo out.  _ Tubbo, dead on the ground, divine gold bursts in his chest— _

“Breathe with me, man. Come on. Just follow me; five in, ten out.”

Tubbo’s holding his close now. He shakes against his embrace. He attempts to follow his breathing, pathetic and small and not very big; Tubbo’s hand is gingerly placed over his bare knee, warm and comforting, and so he eventually succeeds, his breathing soothing down into just a mild acceleration. It’s just a dream. It’s just a dream. Five in, ten out. 

“You’re alright,” his friend tells him. ”I’m right here. You’re okay, big man.”

Tommy shivers. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I think I freaked out a little.”

“That’s okay,” Tubbo says. “Was it the old nightmare? From when we were twelve?”

Tommy nods.  _ Fuck _ , it was the old one again. “It’s been years,” he manages. “I thought it was over.”

“It was just a dream. They’re just bad dreams, that’s all. Nothing can hurt you, you’re  _ Tommy! _ ”

_ His hands are red and gold, glitter and crimson. He should have known better. The gold eats through his skin and floods the world around it. The holy sword drips blood and aurora.  _

Tommy shudders. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry, I just. I  _ know  _ that. But they feel so real.”

Tubbo’s staring at him with worry. “What do you mean?” His voice is soft, gentle. 

“My dreams,” Tommy starts. His words feel like tar. He tries to push them out, anyway, even if it’s treason, even if it’s blasphemy. “In my dreams, you and my brothers, you... you all die. I’m— I’m the one that— I kill Techno, and Dream and Wilbur. It’s— it’s just like I’m possessed or somethin’.”

Absolute silence, for a perfectly damning moment.

“W-well,” his best friend says, breaking the ice, “but they’re just dreams still. They’re not reality, they’re not gonna happen. Surely not. You’re just a bit stressed with all that’s happened, that‘s all.”

“I’ve had these dreams since I was four,” Tommy continues. He feels the gold burn inside him, desperate to claw its way out of his chest; like the sensation of a shot of alcohol down his throat. He inhales, trying to soothe the fire inside his lungs, yet only feeling like he’s fanning the flames. 

But Tommy looks at Tubbo. Tubbo, who looks pale, eyes wide open: he has connected the dots. 

“Since before we met,” Tubbo finishes the thought. “Oh, Tommy, why didn’t you tell me?”

Tubbo’s words aren’t judging, just hurt. That makes it even worse, Tommy thinks. 

“I was  _ twelve _ ,” Tommy says, shifting on the bed. “I didn’t wanna freak you out.”

“We’re not twelve anymore.”

“So you just, what, expect me to go,  _ oh, hey Tubbo, listen, I’ve had dreams about you dying since before we even met, just thought you should know,  _ like that?”

“I don’t  _ know,  _ Tommy,” Tubbo sighs, “I just wish you didn’t have to deal with this alone for so long.”

The gold sparks, violent, protective. By their bedside, the Compasses glow a little brighter in response, though neither of them notice. “I’ve always had you, Tubbo. That’s more than enough.”

“You’re an idiot,” Tubbo sighs; there’s no real bite behind his words. “We should probably tell my dad,” he muses. “He might know what’s up with all this.”

Tommy whines. Tubbo doesn’t let go of him. “I'd rather not talk about this at all.”

“Tomorrow, then,” the Prince says. He slowly pulls Tommy back down, nestling him between the soft pillows and blankets. “Tomorrow we will tell my dad. Right now, you could use some rest.”

_ He is watching his best friend die. His blood splatters against his brother’s face as the madman laughs, possessed by forces above him. _

“I don’t know if I can,” Tommy admits, curling into his best friend. Tubbo presses a kiss to his head and sighs.

“That’s okay,” he whispers. “I will be right here anyway.”

Tommy shudders. “Okay,” he mumbles back.

Neither of them fall back to sleep, but they weather the night together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am Back, Tired and I Want To Punch My Brain Into Producing Content  
> this one was supposed to be longer and angstier, with an Epic Final Battle, before i realized, like, that's boring and shit, so i didn't do it  
> anyway. hero of legend tommy. can you tell im a tloz fan


	8. i watch the sea creep 'round the corner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long time ago, a Prince and his Aide go to the beach.

“I don’t know about this, Wil,” the Prince says. 

“Don’t be a pussy,” the older boy huffs out. “It’s just water.”

The ocean stands before them, dark, heavy and imponent. The sun shies away from them today. The water (cold, too cold) wraps itself around Schlatt’s bare ankles and he squeaks from the sudden drop in temperature. “Nope, nope, nope,” he mumbles. “This is not good.”

The Prince, Wilbur thinks, is a bit overdramatic, isn’t he? When he’d been asked to accompany the boy on a trip to the seaside, something about his poor health or whatever, he had expected the snarky, intelligent kid with whom he would play inside the castle, the little brother he’d come to know and love. Instead here he is with a scared little kid that didn’t even wanna come in the first place. 

Kind of a waste if you ask Wil. But orders are orders, and besides, he quite likes Schlatt anyway. Even if he’s a bit of a wuss. 

Wil’s only a few months older than Schlatt himself, but even then, the difference is stark and clear as day. Schlatt’s barely eleven, scared of the ocean, and his left horn (which started sprouting merely half a year ago) is chipped from the time one of his noble friends launched him through the air and right into the wall. Wilbur’s twelve, and he’s already been accepted as a Court Musician. Schlatt wants to play pretend and run around; Wil also wants that, but he’s too grown up, anyway. 

Like he’s too grown up for this. 

So he steps deeper into the ocean, up to his knees, holding Schlatt’s hand and slowly pulling him in. “C’mon,” he says. “It won’t kill you.”

“But it’s cold,” the Prince whines. Everything about him screams tension right now. “ _ I’m  _ cold, Wilbur.”

“It’ll be fine! Hey, maybe we’ll even meet a mermaid or something. You never know!”

“I guess…”

The water reaches Schlatt’s hips, now, and Wilbur’s thighs. His hand is frozen solid into his Aide’s. “You’re doing great,” he tells the Prince. “Just a little more. Your body’s gonna get used to the cold, you’ll see.”

“Fuck,” Schlatt whispers. Thank the Gods his father isn’t around to hear it. He laughs, wheezing, and looks Wil in the eye (brown meets brown, sweet childhood mirrors). “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“Don’t believe,” Wil says, and he grips onto the boy tighter, “just  _ do. _ ”

“Wil,  _ no—! _ ”

And he dives into the freezing sea, pulling his friend down with him. 

Later, they sit by the shore. Schlatt is dozing off underneath the lazy sun; it hides in a blanket of clouds, and the Prince mimics him with the pile of towels he’s buried under. Wil sits by his side and plays the lute. 

“This is nice,” Schlatt croaks. His voice is rough from the cold. Maybe swimming in the ocean while sick wasn’t the best idea. “Is that a new song?”

“Mm-hm,” Wilbur replies. “ _ Saline Solution.  _ Still working on it though.”

“Fitting.” 

The boys hum, contented. Wil runs a hand through his friend’s hair, rubs his thumb against the sore base of his horns. Schlatt closes his eyes. 

“You’ll keep playing, right?” The Prince asks him. “Even when I’m not here.”

It’s just a whisper. But in the silence, with only the crashing of the waves and the whistling of the wind around them, Wilbur hears it clearly. 

“Don’t say that,” he says. He places down his lute, looks at his friend. “Don’t say it.”

“Listen, Wil,” Schlatt starts. 

“No. I’m not gonna hear it—“

“I’ve had time to think about it, and I’m not scared of it. It’s fine.”

“It’s  _ not  _ fine,” Wil hisses. “You’re not going to die.”

The boy’s head, resting on his thigh, turns towards the ocean. “Look,” he says. “It’s like the tide as it goes. It’s slow, but it won’t stop.”

It’s not like the tide at all. Crashing fevers and screams of agony and days spent in bed fighting for your life aren’t like the tide; if Schlatt’s illness is the sea, they’re the grandest of storms, waves towering like mountains and devouring grand battleships whole. It’s not like the tide. It’s a kraken, it’s a dragon: sudden, unexpected, painful. 

“I’ll stop it,” Wilbur says, regardless, and it feels like an oath.  _ “I’ve stopped it before.” _

He doesn’t tell the Prince about his alchemy lab in the dungeons. Of the potions that, one day, Minx will help him perfect, all in the name of saving their best friend. Of the hours of sleeplessness and the illegal materials and the face Noah keeps making when he sees his disastrous mess. 

“You’re so weird,” Schlatt smiles. Coughs rip through his lungs, wet and pained. He spits out a ball of phlegm and squirms -  _ blegh,  _ he goes. “Oh Gods, this is gross. Why couldn’t I get a  _ normal  _ deadly disease, like, one that doesn’t make me puke my lungs out every other day.”

Wil laughs softly, like it doesn’t stab him right in his heart when he says that. He picks up his lute again and strums a chord, lazily. 

And then—

He turns towards the sea—

_ A chant, a song— _

_ You'll get that feeling deep inside your bones, _

_ I'll be gone then, for when you must be alone, _

“Wil?” 

He blinks. Schlatt’s looking at him, waiting. 

_ Since I saw Vienna,  _ the wind whispers into his ear. Today, he confuses it for his own voice. He won’t make that mistake again. 

(He doesn’t know what Vienna is.)

“Got another song for you, my pretty Princess,” he says instead. “Would you like to hear it?”

Schlatt’s grin grows wide. “You know it, Loverboy. Hit it.”

The whisper of the wind is gone. 

He doesn’t think of telling the Prince about the Voices, either. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally going to be a longer, four-part thing about the changing seasons and the passage of time, but I'm bored and i think they would work better as standalone pieces anyway. You should be seeing one of two pieces soon - either the coveted Snow Day Episode or the "Minx and Schlatt are stupid teenagers" chapter. No promises, though.   
> Anyway, yes I watched Little Women again, yes I'm depressed


	9. you take off your raincoat and stretch out your arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the eve of the Prince's sixteenth birthday, Schlatt and Minx sneak out. Hijinks ensue.

“Okay, I give up, where the fuck are you going.”

Schlatt almost drops his little glowstone pebble from the surprise. In such a dark tunnel it would not be hard to find it again, but that’s not the _point_ right now.

“What are _you_ doing here?” He hisses. Because right behind him stands Minx herself, faintly illuminated by the pebble’s golden light. “How the fuck did you even find me?”

“Been following you for a while,” she says. Right - probably one of her creepy ass potions. Gods, he does _not_ need this right now. “Didn’t know ya had a secret passage in your room.”

“Because it’s supposed to be a _secret,_ ” he snaps. “Only Wil, Quackity and the boys know. And not even all the boys!”

She’s smiling. He can’t fucking stand her. “That’s sexist,” she says.

“It’s not. You’re just stupid as fuck.” He clutches the glowstone in his palm and turns around again, intending to continue down his path, moving through the mossy stone floors towards the exit. “Go back before you get in trouble.”

And yet, despite everything, despite how badly he wants her to just leave him alone, he hears the shuffle of her boots against the ground as she moves to follow. She grabs his wrist and he pulls away. “No way in _hell._ I want to know where _you_ are going, Mr. Prince.”

“Nonya.”

“What’s that?”

He stomps forward. “Nonya business, bitch!”

“I’m sure it _would_ be the King’s business, though,” she says, then, and he can fucking _feel_ the mockery in her voice. “Or your Knights, wouldn’t it?”

She’s gonna snitch on him, he realizes. Just what he needed: the last person he wants to see at any given time being a fucking narc. “You’d have to explain what _you_ were doing here if you tell him,” he attempts to stall, knowing her mind is already made. 

Minx simply shrugs. “Eh,” she says. “They can’t ground me if I’m already grounded. But you, on the other hand…”

 _AAAAAAAAAAAAA,_ Schlatt screams internally. 

“I hate you so much.”

“Feeling’s mutual, ya dick.”

“You can’t tell anyone, Minx.” He can’t believe he’s doing this. “Not your servants, not your guard, not even Niki can know. _Especially_ not my dad.”

Her eyes are dripping with mischief. Gods fucking damn it. He can’t fucking believe he’s doing this. “Deal,” she says. He rolls his eyes and motions her forward. “So where _are_ we going?”

“You’ll see.”

When they step into the open fields outside the citadel, the handle of his sword glints underneath the moonlight. He immediately beelines for the woods nearby, going north, his cloak pulled up, and for once he’s _thankful_ Minx has some good sense in her, seeing as she brought her own too. She’s probably got some more potions on her too; he sees her little leather bag, the one she’s not supposed to still have since her father forbade it but that she keeps in her room in L’manberg anyway. He wonders what her sister would say to that. She’d probably roast Minx over it. They continue their trek mostly in silence even as they pass the grasslands and venture deep into the forest, the night growing colder and colder by the minute. 

“So,” she starts, after a little while. He resists the urge to snap at her; truthfully, most of his early anger at his companion has evaporated already. She pulls her skirt a little up in order to pass over a fallen tree. “How much longer?”

“Thought you wanted an _adventure,_ ” he snipes. “Not much longer, I think.”

“Good to know. I just wanted to annoy you, honestly.”

She’s succeeding. 

“Can you at least tell me _something?_ Like, what is this all about? And why were you going alone? I thought at least Quackity would be with ya.”

“He doesn’t like me coming to this, so I just don’t tell him anymore,” Schlatt admits. He pushes past a tree branch in the way, and it hits her face as he passes by. “He thinks it’s dangerous.”

Minx hesitates, pulling twigs out of her hair. “...is it?”

“Nah. He’s just overreacting.”

She takes one glance at the sword hanging from his hips and promptly decides he’s lying. 

There’s voices now, in the distance, and warm lights illuminating the woods from afar. “We’re almost there,” he says, stopping and turning to her. She almost crashes into him. He’s looking at her like she’s twelve and needs everything spelled out like a baby. “Listen. Whatever you do you stay with me. And if I get in trouble—“

“ _What?_ ”

“—you _don’t_ get involved. Got it?”

“Alright?” She says. “This is gonna be a disaster, ain’t it?”

“Shut up,” he replies. “Let’s go in.”

And they step into the Festival. They used to be held on Mondays before; at least, that's what Schlatt’s telling her. Then they changed the dates, making it more sporadic, and _that’s_ when he got this little tradition of visiting. 

“I first came when I was twelve,” he tells her, as they rift through the thrifty marketplace that’s been set up around the makeshift arena. “And you can only find the next location if you’ve already been to it. It’s all very secretive.”

It had started as a death tournament, years and years ago, before Schlatt had even considered participating. The only real reason it had changed from that into more diverse games was because of the Blade. 

The Blade, he tells her, is the coolest fucking person Schlatt has ever met. He’s a swordsman, a warrior, a fucking machine; he looms over the competition and is unparalleled in 1v1s. Only one person has ever been able to even tie with him, and that’s the Runner, and they’re basically inseparable anyway. It’s a spectacle, Schlatt tells her, watching them tear through the competition as a unit, but it’s not much of a challenge for the duo.

“One time,” he tells her, biting into the slice of apple pie he bought for himself, “one time they had this event where everyone would try to hunt each other down, sometimes they hold those. His team almost-single handedly obliterated everyone. And it was double the contestants too. Fucking terrifying.”

“Yikes,” she says, taking a bite from her own slice. “Sounds like you have a crush.”

He’s immediately flustered, stammering out a “no I _don’t!_ ” while she laughs at his reddening face.

It’s odd, she thinks then, that this is the stage for such a grueling competition, when it all seems so peaceful and lively on the outside. There’s children playing around with fireworks, fair games, bartering, laughter. There’s artists selling their work and there’s travellers and flowers and just _life,_ life like she’s never seen before, not since they were younger.

She misses the sunny summer days running through the fields and watching her friends roll down hills and rushing back up again. She misses the trips to the beachside and Schlatt whining about how cold the water was just not to admit the ocean frightened him. She misses those days - when they were friends, not the victims of a stupid archaic system that sent her to boarding school if she pulled up her skirt too high. 

They throw the paper plates into the trash. She takes out a handkerchief from her bag, cleans up, and then hands it to him. He takes it without complaining. 

“The games start at midnight, so we can goof around for a while. Just stick close because if anything happened— to you,” and he stutters a little, though he quickly recovers, ”and it’s not like I give a shit, but if anything happens to you we’re both gonna be in a fuckton of trouble.”

“We’ve been in trouble before, what’s the big fuckin’ deal?”

“This is serious, dumbass, I’m not getting grounded because _you_ got hurt.”

“You’re being such a baby.”

“I’m not!”

“You know what they call ya? Big Baby. They call you that.”

People don’t turn to look at them. No one pays them any mind, and yet it feels like something is about to explode in-between them. “No one calls me that,” he bites out. 

“They do. Ted does.”

“Ted doesn’t fucking call me that.”

“Ask him next time you see him then!”

“You’re a fucking asshole,” he snaps, “do you fucking know that?”

“I just don’t see why we gotta _be_ together! At all!”

Schlatt groans. “Then go off and get _killed_ like an idiot, see if I care.”

“Fine!”

“ _Fine!_ ”

And as they storm away from each other, they can’t help but glance back - at entirely different moments, believing the other to not care.

(“Ted,” Schlatt whispers. 

Theodore Nivison looks away from the book he’s currently engrossed in. Next to him, the Prince is glancing at him. He’d believed his friend asleep, too bored after his lessons, so it’s a surprise to see him wide awake. 

“Yeah?” He asks. 

“Minx said you called me Big Baby. Is it true.”

Ted has never had to hold back laughter so badly.)

Minx huffs around the fair, refusing to look back. The second she does she’ll have to admit she’s lost, and then _that’ll_ mean Schlatt (the dickhead) was right. She pushes past the people, a hand steady on her bag’s strap, watching out for any possible thieves - although the crowd seems pretty mild, all things considered. There’s a rock inside her boot, somehow, and the night’s starting to get pretty chilly. She stops by a makeshift bench to pull it out, plopping down on the felled tree with a sigh. 

Will she even find Schlatt again? What if she doesn’t? She really didn’t think this through. _Well,_ she supposes, _if anything, this is his fault for sneaking out._ She unties the laces of her boot, pulling it off and shaking it upside-down until the pebble falls out before putting it back on. 

“This seat taken?”

The tired voice appears out of nowhere and Minx flinches at it, startled. When she looks up, her chest tightens; red eyes burn into her own. There is a _massive_ dragonborn dude in front of her, covered in travel armor and absolutely covered in weapons. An adventurer, maybe, but if Schlatt’s words were anything to go by she was willing to bet it was probably something worse. She’s only even _met_ a dragonborn, like, twice, and never in a place like this, and the man’s intimidating, even as she nods, even as he sits next to her and dwarfs her entire figure. She thinks he might be a hybrid, actually. He leans back and sighs, before looking at her. 

“You wouldn’t have happened to see my friend, right?” He’s asking. He gestures as he speaks: “short-stack, green cloak, has a Hunter’s mask over his face.”

“Nope,” she squeaks. And then, “I like your hair.”

“Heh?” The man reaches for his long, pink hair, styled into a careful braid, and pulls it over his shoulder. “Thank you. My friend helps me dye it.”

“I’ve always wanted to dye mine,” she tells him. Her hands are still shaking, but not as badly; she steadies them against her skirt. “My family would have my head, though.”

_And my kingdom. And Schlatt’s kingdom. I hate this so much._

“That sucks. I’m sorry.”

“Eh, it’s fine.” Silence follows. Not a comfortable one. It is all very tense and Minx hates this, hates feeling like she’s got a sword at her neck, so she goes, “do ya come here often?”

The man stares at her, deadpan, like she just told the funniest joke this side of the world. “Is this your first time here?” He asks her. 

“It’s that obvious, huh.”

“Kinda,” he laughs. “Yeah, I come here a lot. The Duels are kinda my thing, but the new games they’ve been adding are fun too. I’m guessing someone invited you?”

“ _Kinda,_ ” she parrots with a laugh, “my friend was sneaking out and I decided to follow him, but then we fought and now I’m fuckin’ angry at him.” Her shoulders sag a little. “I should probably find him, though.”

The man ponders at this. “We could look together,” he proposes to her. “I look for my friend, you look for yours. That way it’s gonna end up being safer for everyone involved.”

The idea should’ve spooked Minx. Frightened her even. But the fact is that, despite the faint trails of _some_ strange magic on him, despite his intimidating figure, she trusts him, somehow. 

Besides, it _would_ be safer, wouldn’t it?

“Sure,” she shrugs. “I’m Minx.”

The dude smiles back, just a shy smirk. “Techno,” he tells her back. “Let’s start looking.”

Their search is uneventful, mostly, but Minx doesn’t mind. This Techno dude is actually pretty fun - if a bit of a nerd - and he knows his way around the fair. He’s a fighter, she learns, and an adventurer; he travels the world with his best friend doing missions for money. Honestly, it’s the kind of life she would’ve loved to have. He doesn’t mind it when she rants about alchemy for an hour as they search, and most importantly, he doesn’t care if she curses, or yells, and that’s such a blessing she doesn’t mind it too hard when he keeps tripping on her cloak.

“Sorry,” he keeps saying. “You’re too tall. Not used to that.”

“I’m really not,” she says, and it is the truth.

“Maybe,” he says, “but my friend is shorter,” and she knows it is the truth too. 

She doesn’t tell him she’s a princess. She doesn’t tell him her friend is a prince, too. Life is complicated enough as it is, what with all the politics involved; let her dream of a life where she’s just a girl about to watch a few dozen people beat each other up.

“It’s not an easy life to lead, either,” he tells her when she muses about his life. “Think twice about making any rash decisions, ‘lright? You’re a smart kid.”

“I’m not gonna do anything,” she tells him. “I have my whole fuckin’ life planned for me already. We’ll just have to see what happens.” She pauses. “And I’m not a kid. I’m sixteen.”

He smirks. “Same.”

That’s not to say they spend the entire night just _searching,_ not when it might as well be the last taste of freedom she ever gets to enjoy. No sir, this is gonna be _her_ night. They waste time playing some fair games. Techno has incredibly good aim, and strength, and _everything,_ but he’s not counting on Minx being a total devil and using magic to cheat. He’s clearly not used to interacting with magic users on a regular basis; for a warrior, he really should work on that. They hang out by the small pond and she laughs when the frogs all leap onto him. They dance together, mingling with the crowd, even if he has two left feet and even if she keeps _staring at all the girls, oh gods, they’re so pretty._

Time flies by like that. Minx has to admit she’s having _fun,_ like she hasn’t had in years. She tells him this as they continue their search; it’s eleven, now, and people are getting ready for the actual tournament. Techno’s getting nervous and Minx has to admit she’s starting to worry. What if Schlatt got hurt? What if he got sick? What if someone took him, what if—

He reaches for her shoulder, gently. “Your friend is gonna be fine,” he reassures her. “How much trouble can an idiot get into in a couple of hours?”

There’s a commotion, then, a crowd has formed. A glass bottle shatters. _Oh no._ “Let’s hope not too much trouble,” she sighs, though experience has taught her otherwise. “Let’s see what the hell that is.”

“Sure,” Techno says. “Stay behind me.”

The multitude seems to part when Techno shows up, like he’s the police about to arrest a criminal. Minx peeks from behind his arm: a man fitting Techno’s description of his friend (green cloak, white mask) is kneeled on the ground, next to an unconscious figure. 

“There’s my friend. Poor idiot,” Techno snorts, continuing his stride forward. “That guy probably got too drunk.”

Minx squints and _oh gods,_ she’s going to kill someone. She’d recognize those stupid fucking horns anywhere. The unconscious figure is none other than _Schlatt_ of all people - because of course it is. “Shit, that’s _my_ fucking idiot.”

“He passed out just now,” Techno’s friend is telling him. “We were talking and he just collapsed. Help me get him up?”

Ice fills Minx’s lungs. Techno helps Schlatt up from the dirt and they make a beeline to a bench, where he carefully deposits the unconscious Prince, while she rummages through her bag and (finally) fishes out a vial. The purple liquid shimmers as the festival’s lights bounce off of it; she removes the cork and motions at them to _move,_ dammit.

Taking a closer look at Schlatt now makes her almost regret ditching him. He looks kinda peaceful, even with that ugly gash against his forehead from when he fainted like an idiot. She pours the potion into his mouth, even at her companions’ worried shouts. It doesn’t matter anyway. Moments later, Schlatt is waking up, coughing up glitter and faintly glowing pink - side effects of the restoration. 

“Fuck,” he whimpers, unfocused. He’s curled up onto himself so fast. “ _Fuck,_ that was a bad one. Fuck.”

He barely has any time to prepare himself before Minx is crushing him in a hug. “You asshole,” she grunts, burying her face into his shoulder. “I’m gonna murder ya when we get back.”

“Minx?” He mumbles, sinking into her embrace. “I was looking for you.” Their hug dissolves - and the moment he finally tears his gaze from his friend’s, daring look up at the looming figures above them, his eyes widen like discs. “Holy fuck,” he squeaks. “ _Holy fuck, it’s the Blade and the Runner._ ”

She turns to them. The masked man is snickering now, barely containing his laughter, and Techno himself is grinning. 

She turns to Schlatt again. “Don’t you _dare_ faint again,” she warns him. 

Oh, the masked man cackles. 

All four of them sit at the bench, then, as Schlatt recovers. The regen potion, as she’d dubbed it (her own invention, if helped a little bit by her friends) _was_ quite effective, but it took a little while to really get going. In the meantime she processed the new information, and by that she clearly meant she bullied Schlatt on his obvious crush on the two best fighters in the festival - Technoblade and Dream themselves, the Blade and the Runner, the fighter and the hunter. His idols, in the meantime, were having quite some fun at his expense. Laughed at him. Joined her in her bullying efforts. 

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it off,” Schlatt grumbles. His hands are still shaking from the exertion. “Next time _you_ can go get lost for real. I’m not gonna look for you.”

“Dude, _we_ were the ones who found you,” Technoblade points out. “Since you passed out.”

“Mhmnn,” Schlatt pouts. She wonders how the fuck he manages to cope with his illness all alone in this place. Honestly, it’s a miracle nothing has happened to him so far. 

“Look at the bright side, dumbass,” Minx says. “At least you woke up right on time for the actual event.”

“Speaking of which,” Dream said, glancing at the small watch on his partner’s wrist (what a marvel of engineering, she thought!), “it’s ten to midnight. Let’s go get ready, _Tech’i._ ”

“You got it.” The two get up, Dream patting at his own cloak. She feels like staring at the mask is probably bad manners, but she doesn’t know what clan he’s from, and he hasn’t commented on it. Sue her. 

“Enjoy the show,” Dream says. And then, looking at Schlatt, “stay ‘till the end, _alor’ika._ ”

Schlatt blushes, oh my gods. “What does that mean?”

“Take a guess, your Highness,” Techno says. Both royals freeze, and the duo laughs. “You’re not as discreet as you think you are. Have a nice festival and see you later.”

As they walk away, they sit there, dumbfounded. “Holy fuck,” Schlatt once again says. There are stars in his eyes. “ _Technoblade and Dream know who I am._ ”

“You’re fanboying so hard. This is unbelievable.”

“You haven’t _seen_ them in action, Minx!”

“They’re _nerds!_ ”

(“Dream, uh, wait,” Techno says, reaching for his friend’s wrist. “Can we talk?”

Dream’s sharpening his axe. He looks up at his best friend in the world. “Yeah? What’s up?”

“I wanted to ask you something,” Technoblade starts. Gathering courage. Heart racing. “Something important.”

“Sure,” Dream says, standing away from the grindstone. “Go ahead.”

“Well,” he says. His voice suddenly fails him. _Now, of all moments!,_ he groans. “What I wanted to say, it’s—“

“Dream!” 

Chandler’s standing by the doorway, holding his clipboard close to his chest. His eyes land on the Hunter and he smiles, warm.

“Guess it’s my turn,” Dream smiles, a bit nervously. Despite being the best (second best if you asked Techno), he still got anxious before fights. “Wish me luck, okay?”

“Good luck,” Techno says. Dream envelops him in a quick hug, grabs his axe and skips towards the entrance to the arena. 

Techno sighs and moves towards the gates, too. He won’t miss his friend’s fight. 

He won’t gather the courage to ask the question again for at least a decade.)

The final fight is Technoblade versus Dream, as usual. After the round of TNT Run wherein Techno won all five laps and the Button Finder where Dream managed to sneak to a solitary part of the arena and get all those buttons first, their ascension to the top two was unquestionable. The audience goes wild. Schlatt is fucking trembling and Minx thinks he might start crying. Does he do this every single time they’re finalists?

“Oh my gods, look! There they are!”

Technoblade and Dream walk into the arena together. Both armed to the teeth and looking absolutely terrifying and somehow more intimidating than earlier. They take their spots opposite to each other, like they’ve done a hundred times before, and then, in a moment of pure synchronization (that speaks more of their bond beyond the battlefield), they both turn to the last row of the western bleachers, where both royals sit. Technoblade grins. Dream waves. 

“Oh my _gods,_ ” Schlatt whimpers, and she feels him shuffle in his seat. 

She turns towards him. “Schlatt?”

He’s fainted again. _Fucking honestly,_ she thinks, already reaching for another damn potion. _Quackity’s gonna kill me tomorrow._

The bell rings. Technoblade and Dream leap towards each other. Schlatt misses half the fight, but after Dream is crowned victor (narrowly, a 6-4), they meet outside the arena and the adventurers give him their Guild mail codes, and Schlatt won’t shut up about it for months, even after they bid each other farewell. 

It’s the best night Minx’s had in years. 

“Hey,” she calls for him, as they walk back through the forest. They’re sore, tired, but lighter in a way that neither of them can describe. He’s still a little weak, so she walks a little behind him, in case he trips or something. “Schlatt, wait.”

“Yeah?” He turns to her. They’re by the edges of the woods, now. From where they stand they can see the capital, rising on the horizon, and the sky starting to lighten up. “What’s up?”

“I know you’ll be busy later, so I wanted to give you this. That’s why I was followin’ you earlier.” She reaches into her bag (worn, old, treasured) and pulls out not a potion, as he had suspected, but a little cloth bag, tied with a blue ribbon. He stares at it on his open palm when she places the gift on it.

“What?” He manages out. “What the hell is this?”

“Happy birthday,” she replies. “Surprise! Open it!”

“You got me a _gift?_ Why?”

“This is just _my_ gift,” she tells him. “Like, from _me_ as your friend. I thought you’d like it more than the gift from _fiance-me._ Open it, come on!”

“Alright, alright.” Carefully, he pulls apart the ribbon and peeks inside.

“Well?”

“What the fuck, Minx?” Schlatt says. “It’s broken!”

“Huh?”

Minx comes closer, then, eyes wide open, and Schlatt shows her: the little porcelain ram she’d bought him at the marketplace days before was shattered in three big framents. 

“What the fuck!” She shouts, and he cackles into the silence that surrounds them. ”No, don’t laugh! Stop! I’m sorry!”

He only cracks up louder.

(He fixes the little ram himself, eventually.)

(Well. He has Ted do it. It’s only fair.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> boom the pacing's all nasty and it's not that good (it bad as hell, bad) but honestly just have it idc anymore  
> happy new year ooo
> 
> as for whatever techno wanted to ask dream... hmm...  
> someone yell at me so i finish writing the snow day. it was supposed to be the christmas chapter please


	10. and now it's found us like i have found you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a Snow Day in Manberg.

“ _ Daaad _ ,” Tubbo groans, but the embarrassed smile on his face reassures the King in that he is not overstepping any boundaries. “C’mon, I’m fine. Tommy’s waiting for me.”

“Nu-uh, not yet,” he replies, wrapping a wooly scarf around his son’s neck. “No prince of mine is gonna freeze to death. Big Q, you’re gonna watch over him, alright?”

“Yessir,” Quackity laughs from behind him. “Totally not going past the city walls. Got it.”

Schlatt squints at him. “You’re gonna be the death of me. Don’t you know I’m like, gravely ill and could  _ die _ ?”

“You’re the paragon of good health, dad,” Tubbo chirps in. “You can’t die unless proven otherwise.”

“My Gods, aren’t you so smart.”  _ I love him so much,  _ Schlatt thinks. “ _ Okay _ , you can go now. But come back before sunset.”

His son beams at him, and he’s already bouncing down towards the castle gates before he’s even finished the sentence. “Thanks, dad— oh!” He stops in his tracks, as if he’s forgotten something, and then, he’s rushing up the stairs again. He crashes into Schlatt, embracing him into a hug that pulls the air from the King’s lungs, and grins at him. “I love you! Bye!”

And he’s gone down again.

Holy fuck, Schlatt’s gonna have a heart attack. When he turns to Quackity, eyes wide, he’s not surprised in the slightest to see this stupid shit-eating grin plastered onto his Knight’s face.

“Fuck, just— just  _ go  _ already,” he orders, mortified.

“Yessir, Mr. Dad,” Quackity mock-salutes. He’s running down the stairs too fast for Schlatt to grab him.

“You better be careful, asshole!” He shouts at him anyway, shivering into his own coat. “I’m your King, I can still execute you!”

And Quackity has the audacity to _ laugh  _ as he reaches the gates: “good luck catching me,  _ guapito! _ ”

_ (Tommy wakes from a nightmare. They’re becoming more and more frequent, now. It scares Tubbo a little. _

_ “I’ve got you,” Tubbo whispers, holding his best friend close as he wheezes for air. “I’m right here.” _

_ “You’re dead,” Tommy chokes; hot, thick tears run down his cheek. “You’re dead, I don’t want to fight, I have to—” _

_ “Tommy, breathe,” he instructs him, calmly; the unmovable object to Tommy’s unstoppable force. And Tommy follows. _

_ He doesn’t mention the gold, bright and burning and terrible, as it obfuscates his best friend’s sky blue eyes.) _

It’s the first big snowfall in Manberg in ten years, and Tubbo is determined to make it count. He runs against his better judgement through the paved streets of the capital, Quackity chasing after him. He follows the roads he’s come to know like the back of his hand; usually he would stop to greet the townsfolk, but there’s more pressing matters at hand: it is nearly ten in the morning, and he and Tommy had agreed to meet each other at the hour, under the Tree in the heart of the citadel. He’s been living with them at the castle for a while now, what with the knight training and such, but since their brothers are visiting, he’d chosen to stay with them instead. Which is fine. It just means Tubbo misses his best friend. His steps quicken. 

“Turbo,” Quackity gasps, trying to catch up, “c’mon kid, slow down!”

“I thought you were a soldier!” Tubbo laughs. He swiftly dodges a woman as she shovels snow from her storefront (how exciting!).

“I’m a  _ Knight, mocoso,  _ not a marathonist!”

A turn right on main street and they reach the plaza, the founding place of the country. Tubbo knows of the legends of its foundation, the wars from hundreds of years ago; he’s been studying them since he got here. Preparation for being a prince and all that. But right now he doesn’t care about that. 

The L’mantree (the only thing in the country to keep the L after the war) stands tall in the center of the plaza, and the sight of its giant evergreen shade covered in snow makes Tubbo pause, allowing Quackity to finally catch up.

“How the hell are you so fast?” The man’s laughing, with his hands on his knees as he steadies his breathing. Then he looks up and he sees it, too. “Oh my gods,” he says. “That shit’s beautiful. I should drag Schlatt out here later.”

“Dad would like that,” he agrees, “but convincing him’s gonna prove difficult.” A quick glance around (kids are playing, it’s overflowing with life, it’s the happiness he’s always wanted) tells Tubbo his best friend is nowhere to be seen - not yet, at least. He pulls out the Compass from his pocket, then, running his thumb over the engravings (runes on the edges along the glass -  _ Your Tommy  _ on the back); the needle is moving around, slowly twisting on its axis. “Tommy’s on his way, I think.”

“Good. You have money on you, right?”

“Mm-hm.”

“No going past the forest. I mean it. If anything happens to you Schlatt will  _ really  _ kill me. And  _ no  _ staying with only Wilbur and Tommy! We’re not pushing that prophecy thing.”

“I promise, Quackity.”

“This is such a bad idea,” the Knight mutters under his breath. “We meet here before going home, okay? Don’t do anything stupid, seriously.”

Tubbo smiles, sweetly, like that’s gonna somehow fool his dad’s right-hand man. “I  _ promise. _ ”

Quackity runs a hand over his face; his hat’s gently getting covered in the falling snow. “Well. That’s what it is, then. Have a good day, Tubbo, Tommy!”

“You too, Big Q!”

Tubbo turns around at the voice as Quackity waves behind him and starts walking away. Sure enough,Tommy’s already jogging towards him, holding his own Compass in his hand. His radiant smile, Tubbo must admit, is ridiculously contagious. “Tommy!”

They hold each other close as soon as they’re within reach, Tubbo closing the distance between them. His best friend in the whole world looks cold as shit; kind of ridiculous, considering Wilbur’s bright yellow scarf is wrapped around his neck, right above his own bandanna, and he’s wearing  _ at least  _ two sweaters underneath Wil’s trench coat. “Ah,” Tubbo says, gesturing at his own scarf and several layers of clothes, “you got the Schlatt treatment too.”

Tommy laughs, loudly, obnoxiously - warmth spreads inside Tubbo’s chest. “This shit’s itchy, man. But Wil wouldn’t let me leave without it.”

“I feel that,” Tubbo says. His fingers interlock with Tommy’s gloved ones ( _ these are Dream’s,  _ he realizes) and he grins at his friend. “Well, let’s go! I gotta be back by sunset.”

“Hell yeah!” Tommy shouts. And so they run past the L’mantree, towards the city gates, feeling like children for once.

_ (Tubbo is sixteen, he thinks. He wakes up in the middle of the night, freezing solid; there’s a cloak over his shoulders and a dying fire before him and not much else. He’s bound with ropes and chains and he doesn’t quite recall leaving his bed. _

_ “Dream?” He whispers. His teeth are clicking against each other as he shivers violently. “What are you doing?” _

_ Dream’s sitting on the opposite side of the fire. He’s still injured. He still needs help.  _

_ “I’m sorry,” Dream whispers. “Techno will rescue you, I’m sure. There… there was no other way. You understand, right?” _

_ Tubbo doesn’t, not really, not yet. Doesn’t know that there are things you can’t solve just by hoping.  _

_ But he says, “I understand,” and he’s lying, and Dream feeds him a piece of bread, and Tubbo later realizes that Dream himself hadn’t eaten anything at all.) _

They run through the open fields, kissed in snow. Today they are not a Prince and his Knight; no, today they are two teenagers, having fun like everyone else. 

At noon, they share some apple pie Phil made them. He brings it out into the plains, just for them, and they dig in right there, sitting on the ground, and Tubbo is thankful for his dad overdressing him for the weather; he’s comfortably warm, now, as he sinks into the layers with a satisfied sigh. 

“Oh Gods,” he whines, the second he digs into the dessert. “This is amazing.”

“Isn’t it?” Tommy agrees. He’s already wolfed down half his slice. “It’s so fucking good. Remember when Phil used to make it for your birthday?”

“Hell yeah.” His birthday had always been on the wrong date. He hadn’t known, of course, his real birthday, so they’d used a placeholder, right next to Tommy’s own. “I’d always steal Wil’s whipped cream. And then  _ you’d  _ steal it from me.”

“‘S not my fault it was so good,” Tommy argues. His fork swipes at Tubbo’s own slice, only narrowly missing it when the Prince pulls it away from his range. “C’mon, gimme some.”

“No, this is mine! You had yours!”

But they’re laughing. And all is good with the world. There’s no prophecies, no terrible fates befell them. They’re safe. They’re safe.

Tommy’s shivering. They fall silent, finishing their pies as they bask in each other’s presence. Tubbo thinks of the dreams, of the prophecy, of the  _ real  _ reason Phil and his brothers are coming to the capital; Techno and Dream should arrive in the following days and then it’ll be time to leave towards uncertainty. The mood has become a little too tense, now. Tubbo stares into the distance; storm clouds settle above them, threatening with a blizzard that same evening.

“There’s just something about,” Tubbo says, words buried into his blue scarf, “the sins of our fathers and shit, right?”

Tommy frowns; his bare fingers curl around the snow, digging into it. “What’s with you getting all poetic, man? Wil’s not even my dad.”

“But you look up to him.” It’s never been in question, the boy thinks, and he knows Tubbo thinks the same. Tommy sighs, looking down. 

“...I do,” he admits. “He’s my brother. Of course I do.”

“Even though he’s done horrible things.” Tubbo won’t look at him; his gaze is lost into the horizon, aimed towards the citadel in the distance. He wrings his hands together and Tommy watches as he pulls from his fingers. “They weren’t his fault, but he still did them.”

“Where did this come from, Big T?”

Tubbo shuffles in place. “I just,” he says. His hand motions towards the capital, the castle, his new life. “He took all this from me. He caused so much pain - he caused a  _ war.  _ But I still love him. And I still love my dad, and I love  _ saying it,  _ I love calling him  _ my dad,  _ but he did horrible things too, right? But then, if they hadn’t done  _ anything _ , we would’ve never met.”

The Compass (runes on the edges along the glass -  _ Your Tubbo  _ on the back) weighs heavier in Tommy’s pocket. 

“Is it wrong to enjoy this? This… this  _ life?  _ It’s only been a few months, but if someone offered me to trade it for a chance to redo it all, I would let it all happen exactly the way it has. Is that wrong?”

Tommy shuffles in his spot. Sets his empty plate aside. “I don’t think so,” he says. “I don’t think it’s bad to be a little selfish. I mean… If you give and give, then eventually you’re gonna run out of things to give, right?”

“Right,” Tubbo agrees, unconvinced. “It’s just so weird. Sorry if I got a little heavy there.”

“Eh, ‘s alright. You already deal with my shit all the time anyway.”

“Because I care about you, dumbass.”

Tommy grins. His smiles have always been contagious, but so are his sorrows; when it falls, the mood remains somber.

“When we go, next week,” he says, “we might not come back. You know this.”

Tubbo nods. “I know. That’s why we have to go.”

“ _ I  _ have to go,” Tommy corrects him. “You could stay, all safe and sound in your little castle with your dad.”

“Yeah, right, like I’d let you go do that on your own.” 

“It’s not a— You’re not  _ letting me,  _ Tubbo, I’m trying to stop you from fuckin’ dying.”

“Well, good thing I won’t! I’m not changing my mind.” Tommy sighs. “Listen, Tommy, even before all of this - ever since we met, it’s been—“

“—you and me against the world, yeah, I know.” His friend sounds defeated. “We’re walking towards the end,” he says, and it feels heavier than it should. A death sentence. 

Tubbo reaches for his hand. Tommy’s taken off his glove. Freezing fingertips tighten around his own. 

“Together,” Tubbo insists, squeezing back. “You and me against the world.”

_ (They run through the forest, laughing. They are thirteen and they have just stolen from a strange man with massive, beautiful raven wings. _

_ “I’m a raccoon boy!,” Tommy cheers. “What an idiot! He didn’t even notice us!” He holds his bounty up: a bag of golden apples. He reaches in, tosses one at his best friend. The holy fruit is warm to the touch, burning with ancient magic. It’s a blessing to his shivering hands. “Dig in!” _

_ “Yessir,” Tubbo replies. The apple’s skin breaks crisp against his teeth. It is caramel-sweet and snappy and perfect in all the right ways.  _

_ For the first time in days, Tubbo and Tommy go to sleep with a full stomach.) _

The snowfall grows heavier. The wind grows wild. Tomorrow, the snow will pile tall across the streets, and everyone, filled with child-like wonder and dread alike, will take the day off to clean the streets and rejoice. In a week, the Winter Solstice celebration, the first since Tubbo’s return. Then after that, their departure from his father’s embrace, from the place he’s grown to call home after such a short time, just to attempt to change fate. 

That’s tomorrow; that’s next week. 

Today, Tommy is holding his hand as they build a snowman. He puts Wilbur’s scarf around its neck.  _ Coldbur,  _ they name it. Later, they will return to the plaza, and Quackity will smile at him, glance with worry at the incoming storm, and walk Tommy back home before continuing with Tubbo to the castle. They’ll get home and the King will hug Tubbo so tight, and the boy will laugh, and then they’ll talk about their day around the fireplace, and the Knights - his godparents, all of them - will join in, and when he falls asleep after dinner Quackity will carry him to bed, Schlatt trailing behind them. He will kiss his forehead, terror now evident in his every move. 

“Oh, Tubbo,” the King will whisper, tucking his boy in. “You better come home safe, kid.”

“He will,” Quackity will reassure him. “C’mon, let’s go rest. You owe me a date tomorrow.”

“Is that what you think it is?”

“You  _ owe me a date,  _ babe.”

“Last time we had a so-called  _ date  _ you chugged a bottle of perfume, Quackity.”

And Quackity will laugh, softly as to not wake the Prince, as they leave the room.

It will all work out, Tubbo tells himself now, and when Tommy cackles when Tubbo puts two branches into Coldbur’s head, makeshift horns that they are, he manages to forget about what will come, if only for just a little bit.

_ (Tommy is thirteen. Tubbo is thirteen, too. They’ve not known each other for long, but it feels like they were born to meet; like every star in the night sky and every God guarding the world had decided upon it. They’re thirteen and they’re sneaking out the old barn-turned-orphanage, carrying nothing but stolen goods in a bag, the fallen branch of an oak tree strapped onto Tubbo’s back, and an ages-old-yet-pristine sword in Tommy’s scabbard.  _

_ “Fuck this place,” Tommy all but shouts. Tubbo laughs. “Fuck this place!” _

_ A light flickers alive in the nearby church’s doorsteps. “Stop right there!,” someone yells.  _

_ Tommy’s fingers are interlocked with Tubbo’s own. They look at each other and laugh. _

_ And Tubbo thinks, I would give anything to see you safe and sound, and his heart is brimming with joy. _

_ And Tommy thinks, I wouldn’t trade you for anything in the fucking world, and the gold in his lungs burns. _

_ And they run into the unknown, Tommy and Tubbo against the world.) _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...merry christmas???????   
> first some things i gotta disclose. i totally deleted cmc from this fic. he was a minor character in it anyway, and the whole situation with him just left me feeling absolutely mad and tired, plus it brought back stuff i'd rather not think about. so. that's that. i edited the chapter which had him. bye bye  
> now let's lighten the mood. snow day is entirely my siblings' fault. my bro's been playing [honest to god dont shoot me santa](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cglLJJ0Czo8) all the time for the last MONTH and its driving me insane. also it snowed pretty heavily in madrid (first snow in two years!) and my sister was going crazy sending us pictures, she even made a snowman! and that pushed me to finish this. so yeah.
> 
> now i gotta ask your opinion: which one would you rather see first? no promises, though  
> \- group therapy pog (with the cast)  
> \- wil comes clean   
> \- minor deities of the world (mostly fleshing out side characters)  
> \- trip to the forest (dream and techno)
> 
> thank u for reading ahgmh.hfg... i really appreciate it...


	11. painted high on white church walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dream, George and Sapnap rescue a mysterious stranger.

They’ve been watching over the alleged prince for hours when he finally stirs. “George,” Sapnap calls out. “George, he’s awake.”

“Shit,” George says. He puts his goggles up, looking away from the device he’s tinkering away at. “I’ll go get Dream.”

The stranger is human, or so they think, at least, and a rather normal-looking one at that. Brown hair, brown eyes. The oddities (or rather, the warning signs) start to appear once one looks at what he’s wearing: clad in strange, completely white clothes, a sleeveless coat shimmering like mother of pearl. He clutches a strange book with a glowing teal swirl on its cover, even in his sleep. 

They’d found him eight hours ago. The absolute hell they went through since - the strange uncanny castle, the storm, attempting to steer themselves to shore after almost drowning in the ocean. They’d managed to rent out a room at an inn the moment they arrived at the nearest town, laid the stranger on a bed, and just waited. And waited. And now the boy is opening his eyes, looking around frantically, which Sapnap can’t blame him for, considering they basically just kidnapped the guy who, speaking of, starts coughing rather violently, so he helps him sit up, and the poor dude eventually manages to calm down. 

“Holy honk,” he croaks, “thank you.” His voice sounds like he hasn’t spoken in centuries.

“No worries,” Sap replies, perplexed.

Dream walks into the room then, followed by George. The stranger tenses up at the sight, gripping onto Sapnap’s wrist rather painfully; he probably thinks this is a ransom thing or something, waking up surrounded by complete strangers after all that mess. Someone should clarify that for him, he thinks. “Ah, you’re awake,” Dream says anyway, not noticing the boy’s distress. “That’s good. We were worried you wouldn’t. You’re safe here, promise.”

His words falter as he actually takes in the sight: the boy in white is trembling like a leaf, extremely pale, eyes teary. “Uh,” George attempts, “is he okay?”

The poor guy says, dizzy, “when am I?”

The boys look at each other, then back at him. “Excuse me?” Dream asks him. The boy jerks back as his questioning grows. “What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“I, uh,” the guy wipes at his nose, inhaling. “I’m sorry, this just- hasn’t happened before.” A faint laugh leaves his chest. “I’m, I’m Karl. Yeah. Karl _Jacobs._ ”

The Inbetween’s always been quiet. That’s one of its three big constants: it is quiet, it is safe, it is lonely. That’s how it’s always been, and that’s how it always _must_ remain. 

Sometimes, Karl can’t help but wonder why. Why must he stay in there, forever its guardian, forever sheltered? Surely he must’ve come from something else. Surely there must be something more. All he’s known, for as far as he can remember, are these empty white halls and vast blue skies. Books that tell him who he is, what he is for, but nothing about who he used to be, what he used to do before. Because there _is_ a before, Karl is convinced, there _has_ to be a before.

He refuses to believe this is all there is.

He sits on his desk, stubbornly refusing to sleep. The open book (the one with the swirl on its cover, the most important one - how does he know that?) stares back at him, expectant; he dips his quill into the ink and presses the tip against its blank pages.  
And then writes nothing. Not a single word. He stares as the black seeps into the paper, then lets out a frustrated groan. This is wrong. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. He was a writer, before, he knows this much; a storyteller, weaving intricate tales. He was an entertainer. He was- He was-

_(Something in his gut tells him it goes much more deeper than that._

_It all feels like a dream, sometimes. Like something out of a fairytale. A castle, far away; someone running their hands through his hair, the sound of the ocean, holding someone’s hand as they sneak out of a masquerade._

_There just has to be more than this.)_

The thought is gone before he can put a pin on it. Karl sets the quill down. The ink smudges against his face as he rubs it with his hands. He stares at the door for a moment, and his hands itch. 

_Maybe you should get some sleep,_ the quartz walls whisper.

“Maybe I should get some sleep,” he tells himself. And so he gets up, lays down in bed, and the moment he closes his eyes, the sun sets, and the world goes dark.

Let’s set the scene for how this whole mess even started.

Picture a library. It’s an old hidden thing, nested tightly between two boulders in the middle of the Wilds; the forest in the neutral Hunter territories is quite thick, and the wooden door, covered in moss and vines, manages to disguise it from the untrained eye. It’s been abandoned for a few years, now, perhaps decades, and it’s showing.

Picture now three young men walking through said forest. The lead is a young Hunter, half-elf, face completely covered by one of his tribe’s flagship masks; he knows the woods like the back of his hand. He’s followed by a human with white-rimmed goggles strapped to his face, looking like he’s just woken up, and a Dragonborn who keeps flicking pebbles into the distance. They’re headed east from the Hunter’s village, towards an opposing faction; the Hunter is supposed to be a negotiator for peace. War, some say, might be on the horizon, and the Hunter Tribes could use some unity in such a case. 

They’ve walked this path countless times before. At least, the Hunter has, and his friends are not far behind. So picture their surprise, then, when one of the pebbles the Dragonborn tosses hits - and it echoes, hollow.

They stop. Turn towards the sound. And now that they see it, it’s obvious it’s not just a regular wall, but a locked door.

“Was that always there?” The human asks.

“No,” the Hunter says, already approaching the library. “I’ve never seen that here before.”

He places a hand on the surface, wiping away at the moss and revealing the old oak underneath. They find the lock, somehow not eroded by time or the weather; the human quickly picks it apart, and the Dragonborn pushes it open when it refuses to budge.

Picture the three adventurers inside the library. Picture it, frozen in time. Picture the rows of books, perfectly preserved, pressed against the walls, and the cup of coffee, still steaming, sitting on the desk by the opposite wall to them, next to the glow of a waning candle. Picture a map framed and hung up on the wall, old and outdated yet painted onto new parchment and bright and colorful. Picture the Hunter looking at the scene, dumbfounded, and then turning towards the door again, as he struggles to think of an explanation - because no one could’ve been here in years, and yet the place is impeccable.

“I don’t like this,” the Dragonborn mumbles. “It makes no sense.”

(Picture the Hunter, praying inside his head for answers. Picture his god, coming to him empty-handed.)

The book on the desk is a journal of sorts, they find. Whoever wrote it must’ve been the owner of the little library, or at least a frequent visitor; all the entries seem old, yet have no obvious date written on them. The last one’s ink is still fresh, and the Hunter reads it aloud.

“‘I do not want to forget’,” he says, tracing the words with his finger and smudging them accidentally, “‘but I fear this might be the trip I will not return from. To whoever finds this: I hope my efforts weren’t in vain’.”

“What efforts?” The Dragonborn muses. “Efforts on what?”

“Does it say?” The human asks.

The Hunter shakes his head. “It’s not even _signed._ None of the entries are.” He pockets the journal, sighs. 

“Weird. Do we look around?”

A beat. Picture the human glancing at the Hunter from the corner of his eyes; picture the Hunter, deep in thought, as if having a silent conversation with himself. “Yeah. I don’t like some stranger setting up camp so near our territory.”

So they uproot the library. Picture the group skimming through the books, the novels about knights and princesses, the history books, the textbooks detailing practices long gone (picture the Dragonborn muttering, astonished, “how old _is_ this place?”). Looking under every nook and crevice. And then, just as they’re about to give up, picture the human knocking on the back of one of the bookshelves.

“It’s hollow,” he says. “Sap, help me move it.”

The mahogany shelving is pushed aside carefully. And behind it - a small stone staircase, carved into the rock, leading down, down into the earth. Picture them looking at each other, hesitant, before the Hunter takes the lead (stupid and insane as always) and they walk down the spiral, careful not to trip on the worn cobblestone steps. Then there’s an even smaller library: rushed, furtive, built directly into the wall. There are books kept inside glass boxes, their covers carefully painted: _The Lost City of Mizu,_ one displays, in beautiful gold leaf; _The Masquerade, The Village That Went Mad._ There’s glowstone dust everywhere. 

The group keeps moving; the hallway isn’t quite over yet. And there, at the end of the cavern-  
“What is _that,_ ” the Hunter breathes.

Picture the three standing at the dead end of the cavern. Picture the Portal before them, a swirling pool of teal light against the wall, framed by carefully-placed wooden planks. Picture the adventurers, bathed in the pulsating glow.

(Picture a god, whispering into the Hunter’s ear: _there will be answers,_ ad’ika, _beyond the Gateway._ )

Picture the Hunter being the first to jump in.

The Inbetween’s always been quiet. That’s one of its three big constants: it is quiet, it is safe, it is lonely. That’s how it’s always been, and that’s how it always _must_ remain. 

The Traveler wakes up, all alone. He’s always been alone, for as long as he can remember. What is his name? His mind is comfortably foggy. He snuggles into the bedsheets, wooly blankets soft and plush and warm; he wraps his arms around a pillow and sinks his face into it. 

_You should stay in bed today,_ the welcoming walls tell him.

“I should stay in bed today,” the Traveler muses. It’s odd, that _that_ is his title, when he’s never even left the palace before. Who even gave him that title?

Eh, probably wasn’t that important to begin with.

He turns around, facing the wall, and attempts falling asleep again.

 _Karl Jacobs,_ his mind suddenly supplies, and his eyes snap wide open. _My name is Karl Jacobs. I shouldn’t be here._

He sits up, heart rushing. The white walls of his- of this place no longer feel as welcoming, as sheltering. They echo, frantically, _everything is okay, you are safe._ His name is slipping from his mind already - Karl, Karl Jacobs. He has to remember this time. It’s important that he does. Remember, _remember._ He rips himself from the unbelievably soft bed, and his body fights against himself as he attempts to walk towards the door; his legs are clumsy, almost like he hasn’t used them in ages, which, considering everything, might as well just be. 

Everything’s clearer as he fights against the haze in his head. He reaches the door, imposing locked birch, and as his hand wrestles with the knob he recalls the flower meadow, his friends’ laughter, the- the chokehold this place has on him. 

“C’mon,” he hisses, “ _open!_ ”

Karl bangs his hand against the door. He’s trapped. Gods, he’s trapped. He looks around the room, maybe there’s a key somewhere - but then his eyes land on the window, wide open, and the sun rising beyond it. He walks towards it. “I’m Karl,” he mutters, a mantra to remember, “I’m Karl.”

His hopes are crushed the second he looks out. More specifically, the second he looks _down,_ because he is so high up in the sky he can’t see the solid ground below the clouds. 

He is in a tower. And he has no way down. 

Karl Jacobs sinks to his knees and, after a few panicked gasps, screams. 

Down below, from far away, he hears laughter. 

Dream wakes up and everything is white. 

It’s not like a void, no. He’s not floating in vast endlessness; he’s actually quite uncomfortable, sprawled onto cold marble flooring, his travel gear being his only cushion. He sits up with a groan, only to realize: he is alone. 

Anxiety grips at his chest. Not fear, no; Dream’s _never_ afraid. But where are Sapnap and George? This is quite concerning - when did they even get separated to begin with?

 _Conquest,_ Dream prays for a moment. _What is going on?_

His god is quiet. Sometimes it does this, it remains silent for a while, thinking of a good-enough answer, so he waits, taking in his surroundings. The hall he’s found himself in is quite big and quite empty; the walls reach up into the skies, and from the high ceiling drops down a beautiful crystal chandelier, illuminated by end rods. Then, in the dead center of the room, there’s an altar with a single black rose on top of it. Dream gets up, walks closer to examine it, then freezes in his tracks. 

That is not a regular black rose. That is a _wither_ rose. 

Dream thinks of warzones. He thinks of being fifteen with Techno, standing over the desolation, hand in irredeemable hand, and laughing with pure, unburdened glee at the screams of agony.

Suddenly he likes this place a lot less. 

_Conquest?_ Dream prays again. 

His god replies, words confused: _I have no idea what is happening. Locate your friends. Work from there._

 _Thank you,_ Dream whispers back, standing up. “George?” He calls out. His voice resonates inside the chamber. “Sapnap? Where are you?”

“Dream?” A voice replies to him from outside the room. He jogs towards it, going faster when he sees Sapnap’s dumb face peeking through the entryway. “Dream, you crazy fuck, why did you jump like that?”

“Why did you follow?” Dream counters. Beyond the room he is currently in extends a long hallway, equally as white; the only specks of color in the entire place come from the trio itself. 

“You _know_ we always follow,” George says. He’s still on the floor. “What _is_ this place?”

“I… have no idea,” he admits. “Looks like a castle.”

“Maybe the dude that owns that library lives here,” Sapnap guesses. “Now we have to find a way home. Thanks, Dream.”

“Aw, baby misses home?”

He earns a punch to the shoulder for his troubles. “Shut up dude. Let’s look around.”

The place is immense. The rooms seem to go on for eternity, and everything is cast in a perpetual glow that softens its edges. It seems to be abandoned, and yet they keep hearing noises: faint children’s laughter, quiet whispers in unknown tongues. When they run into a small opening, they take it, and arrive at a small garden; a massive tree with glass leaves stands at its core, refracting the faint sunlight that filters through the clouds. Curiously enough, there’s a swing set by its base. George sits on one of the swings. 

“Oh, _Dream_ ,” he calls out, grinning. “Come push me?”

Dream sits on the other swing, then. Laughs. “No, _you_ push me.”

“You’re both children,” Sapnap says. “Can I burn down the tree?”

Dream laughs harder. 

_A scream._ It startles them from their moment of peace; the three stand still, hands to their weapons. “What was that?” George whispers.

“It has become apparent that we are not alone,” Dream notes, equally quiet. “Where did it come from?”

“Up there,” Sapnap says. They all look up; surely enough, beyond the clouds, one building seems to rise into infinity. “Maybe they’re in trouble.”

“How do we even get up there?”

“ _Hey!_ ” George shouts. Dream swats his shoulder. “Ow! What was that for?”

“Dude, be quiet!”

“How are we supposed to know if they’re okay?”

“You don’t know what’s out there,” Sapnap reminds him. “Maybe I _should_ burn down the tree.”

Dream stares at him. “ _Sap!_ ”

Another scream follows. Anguished, frustrated. Conquest in his head sparks to attention: _help him,_ it whispers. 

“Fuck,” he hisses. “I think we need to get up there.”

“But _how?_ ” Sap asks. 

“Don’t know, but Conquest agrees.” George and Sapnap look at each other, then; the gravity of the moment hits them. “So it must be important.”

George looks up, towards the cloudy skies. “Can I…” 

_Yes,_ Conquest whispers. 

Dream nods. “Go ahead.”

So George draws in a breath, and shouts: “ _HEY! WHO’S UP THERE?_ ”

They wait for a response in silence. Dream’s hands grip onto the swing’s chains, feeling their chill, when it comes. It’s barely audible, desperate, but it comes: “ _please help me!_ ”

They look between themselves once more. “ _HOW DO WE GET UP THERE?_ ” Dream asks. 

“ _I don’t- I don’t know,_ ” the voice sobs. “ _I can’t remember, please-_ “

“Gods,” George mutters, horrified. 

“ _WE’RE COMING,_ ” Sapnap promises. “ _IT’LL BE ALRIGHT!_ ”

The climb up is tense. They refuse to split, so the trio looks for a way up together; they find a ramp first, outside, and as they walk on it they see the sun as it rises, and they see the ocean waves beyond the castle walls, extending for miles into the horizon. Then, now on the second floor, they find the tower (it’s the correct one - they ask). Pushing open the heavy metallic door reveals a long spiral staircase, extending up towards the sky. “Watch your step,” Dream tells his boys, and even with the warning it takes them three a while to get to the top, with George tripping twice and Sapnap complaining about it all.

But then they reach the staircase’s end, and another door stands at its peak. Wooden, cold to the touch, and positively locked. From beyond it, they can hear the stranger’s whimpers: _please, please, please._

“Hello?” Sapnap says, knocking on its surface. “We’re here. We’re going to let you out now!”

“Can you open it?” Dream asks George, who is currently examining the lock. 

“Maybe,” he says, pulling out his lockpicking kit again. “Give me a moment.”

The lock is finally picked. With a click, Dream turns the knob to the right.

They push the door open. 

The door opens with a creak. 

His head is pounding. Who is he? Where is he? He clutches onto his journal, onto its countless useless pages, and doesn’t let go. His eyes are squeezed shut as he tries to calm his breathing. Whoever’s in his room, they don’t move a single step. 

“Hey,” a voice says. It is not the voice of the palace. He knows this because the palace speaks in soothing, empty words, and he has never heard this much emotion in such a simple greeting. “Were you the one that called us?”

Did he? Gods, did he? He draws in a shallow breath, heart hammering into his chest. “I don’t know,” he whimpers. “Did I?”

Another voice speaks. “How long have you been here?”

Karl shakes his head. _Karl. That’s me. Karl._ “My name,” he mumbles. He’s forgotten already. “Help me. Please.”

“We’re going to, promise,” a third voice reassures him. A hand reaches for his shoulder and he jerks away, finally getting a look at the intruders - his rescuers. Three men, all dressed in colorful outfits like nothing he’s ever seen. 

_Intruders,_ the castle walls scream, splitting his head in agony; he clutches at it and slams his eyes shut again. _You need to stay._

“Get out of my head,” the boy whines. The screaming grows louder: _stay, stay._

“What?” One of the men says (the one in green, he thinks). 

“I need,” and he gets up on wobbling legs, stumbling as he pushes past them, “I need to get _out,_ ” and trips at the first step of the staircase. 

The man in white, the big one, manages to catch him by the wrist before he falls all the way down the tower. 

(Right then, the Traveler remembers the feeling of hardcover books against his hands, of yellowing paper brushing past his fingers. He remembers reading about knights in shining armor and tales of true love. He remembers holding the books close to his chest every single time, excitement bubbling through his veins. The feeling doesn’t leave him, like most memories tend to do nowadays.

There _has_ to be more than this. He remembers that.)

Their eyes meet. Wide brown sinks into black. 

“Careful,” the man says, pulling him up again. The Traveler’s legs give into themselves, but the stranger catches him again, this time into his arms. 

“Please,” the Traveler whispers. The man shuffles and looks at his companions. 

“Well,” the man in blue says, fixing his goggles. “Let’s get out of here then.”

The boy falls asleep on Sapnap’s arms halfway down the tower. Even passed out he looks tired; scratches cover his face, his neck, alongside dried tear tracks, and he holds onto that book of his like he might die if he lets go. He glances up, towards the room he used to inhabit, and wonders how long he spent there. 

This place, Sap has decided, is starting to feel like a fucking nightmare, and he wants out. 

They retrace their steps. Dream’s at the helm and George’s at the back, and they make it all the way back to the room Dream woke up in, the one with the wither rose that makes them all incredibly nervous, because what the _hell_ is a wither rose doing here, and where is the Wither that made it grow?

“Now what?” George asks. Sapnap shuffles in his spot, adjusting his grip on the sleeping guy he’s carrying. “This is looking a bit rough. There’s no exit.”

They both turn to Dream, who seems deep in thought. “Any ideas from your Head Voice?”

“No luck,” he replies, shaking his head. “They’ve never seen anything like this before.” He then pauses, turns to look at them; the porcelain mask completely hides his face, but the boys can tell he’s frowning. “Sap, your shirt’s glowing.”

Sapnap looks down. Surely enough, it _is_ glowing; rather, the book the stranger had pressed against his chest is. The teal swirl on the leather cover pulsates with light, like a glowsquid at night. “Huh,” Sap says. “That doesn’t seem good.”

George pokes at the spiral. “That’s _so_ weird!” He says. “It’s like a lamp.”

“What do we even do? Uh, excuse me? Mysterious dude? Your book is glowing.”

The boy doesn’t stir. “Should we open it?” Dream suggests. “Maybe it’s a way out of here.”

“No offense, but if it was, why hasn’t he used it?”

“Well, it only started glowing when we got to this room, right?” George points out. “So maybe it can only be used here, and he was clearly locked up in that other room.”

“Well, _I’m_ gonna open it,” Dream says, and promptly snatches the book from their companion’s grip, and like a child torn from their candy, the boy immediately starts whimpering. The glow grows frantic and desperate. 

“Hurry up and open it,” Sap says. 

And then, the moment the pages split apart, something strange happens. Their vision swims, George chokes on thin air - there, on the wall behind them, another Gate has opened, like the one that led them all there in the first place. Sap manages to catch a glimpse of the journal: pages upon pages of glowing text in a language he’s _dead certain_ none of them have ever even seen before. 

(“What do you think it means?” Sap will ask Dream days later, over the campfire. “Does, uh, does your Head Voice have any input?”

Dream will just stare at the man through his mask. “I don’t know,” he’ll say. “Let’s just watch out for anything weird.”)

“My diary,” the boy whimpers. Dream quickly shoves it back into his arms and he holds onto it so tightly the still-open pages crease. The Hunter then breaks into a run towards the portal - who knows how long that thing will even remain open. 

“Let’s go!” He shouts, and the boys are quick to follow. 

(At least, Sapnap doesn’t hesitate. The boy in his arms clings to his shirt as they fall through the swirl of time.)

The Inbetween’s always been quiet. That’s one of its three big constants: it is quiet, it is safe, it is lonely. That’s how it’s always been, and that’s how it always _must_ remain. 

This, the Traveler quickly realizes, simply can’t _be_ the Inbetween. It’s too loud; that’s the first thing to tick him off. He can’t breathe; he feels like he’s drowning, and not in the way he did when the castle walls would suffocate him with numb nothing. It takes him a moment to register the fact that he’s drowning in the _literal_ sense.

 _Swim up,_ his head screams at him, _swim up!_

He’s underwater, he realizes, and it’s pitch-black around him, a stark contrast to the never-ending white of the Inbetween. But he finds the moon shining above him and he kicks his feet towards it, desperately, and when his head breaks through the waves he sucks in a sharp breath before coughing his lungs out, struggling to stay afloat.

“There he is!” Someone screams. He whips his head towards the voice instinctively, but the waves are too tall, and the seawater burns his eyes. He doesn’t scream for help, trying to swim to the voice regardless, when he feels a hand wrapping itself around his wrist and pulling him forward.

(A fairy tale: a mermaid saves a prince from the raging ocean.)

(Reality: a knight struggles to pull Karl Jacobs onto a boat.)

He sinks into darkness again before they can make it to the boat.

They’ve been rescued. Which is a relief, considering the absolute state of their companion.

He’s not at immediate risk, or at least that’s what Conquest says, and they’re usually pretty accurate. For now, they let him rest; they _all_ need it after that madness. 

The captain of the fishing vessel that saved them from the ocean, a young Daniel Arty, informs them they’re just a couple hours from the Newfoundland shore and not, in fact, in the woods belonging to the Hunter tribes. How they got here, neither of them has any idea.

(Conquest muses: _wherever we just were, it acted as a shortcut. A world between worlds._ Dream is inclined to agree.)

Captain Arty is a good man, kind enough to lead them back to solid ground and give them directions to the nearest settlement, even despite his current conflict with pirates nearby. The whole walk to the village is quiet, understandably so; Sapnap carries the boy on his back, and George and Dream take care of their now-drenched supplies.

They reach the village. They rent a room in the inn. And then they take turns watching the sleeping boy as they sort out a way to get back on track (those peace talks, gods damn it, they’re so _late_ now), and then he wakes up, and Dream rushes into the room with George only to find Sapnap and the stranger lost into each other’s eyes.

“I’m, I’m Karl,” the boy tells them, stumbling over his words, like he’s unsure of that fact. Considering his earlier confusion when they rescued him, it adds up. ”Yeah. Karl _Jacobs._ That’s me.” For some reason, relief flickers on his face.

Dream glances at George. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, opposite to Sapnap (he doesn’t miss the way Karl grips onto his wrist), he shoots him a smile. “Nice to finally meet you, Karl. I’m Dream, this is George and that’s Sapnap next to you.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Karl says. He’s smiling right back at them, seemingly shy. “You, uh, you got me out of there. Thank you, I think I was in there for a very long time.”

“About that,” Dream says, “do you mind if we ask you some questions? We weren’t expecting _any_ of that.”

His smile falters just a little bit. “Oh, um, I can try,” he tells them, “but I can’t promise anything. My memories are very fuzzy…”

“Okay, that’s fair. Okay.”

“Are you a prince?” Sapnap asks. “Oh gods, did we kidnap a prince?”

Karl laughs, faintly. “What? I’m not a prince. I don’t think so, at least. And you didn’t kidnap me, you saved me!”

“But you- that was a palace we found you in,” Dream says. “And you were in that tower.”

Something like a shadow crosses Karl’s eyes, and his smile falters a little, melancholic. “The Inbetween’s not just a palace,” he tells them, and they almost miss the way his hands shake. “It’s a prison, I think.” 

Conquest listens as he speaks. Everyone does. They remember imposing white halls and never-ending stairs and locked rooms. “What do you mean _a prison?_ ” George has to ask, anyway. 

Karl’s staring at the floor, now. Sapnap glances down at Karl’s fingers digging into his wrist, betraying the boy’s otherwise calm exterior. “I think… I think it was meant to be safe. A long time ago. But it _takes_ and _takes_ from you, until you can’t remember it’s a bad place.”

“It’s not even a real place,” Dream points out. “It was inside this library in the middle of the woods.”

The boy tilts his head at the Hunter, face scrunched in confusion. Then he blinks, refocusing. “My library?” He says, distant. “I wrote those books, I think. It’s hard to remember.”

“Wait, how long were you in there? The library was overgrown on the outside.”

“I don’t know,” is his honest response. “I can’t remember. It was just- so numbing. So warm. I couldn’t think. Everything was the same.” Karl exhales. “I want to go home.”

Silence follows for a moment. 

“Okay,” Sapnap says. “Okay. Do you remember where that is?”

Karl stares into his eyes again. And then starts trembling. “I don’t- I don’t know,” he whispers. “Do you have, uh, a map? Please?”

They scramble for one, then, the one George keeps in his bag. They unfold it over the bed and wait. And Karl just stares at it. 

“I think I’m gonna throw up,” Karl says. 

Another panic attack and another night gone and Karl wakes up feeling drained. In a good, not-brain-numbing way. He’s alone in the inn room, it seems, but he doesn’t wanna get up from his bed yet. It’s not uncannily soft like the one in his tower, and it does not trap him in with promises of empty dreams. It creaks with his every move and he welcomes the imperfection with open arms. 

Gods; he loves being free. 

_For now,_ the white walls whisper, far away. 

He looks at the book within his hands, runs his fingers across the faintly-glowing spiral. It’s the first step home, he thinks. The map hadn’t been useful at all, being _completely different_ to the one he was used to. Just how far had he traveled? How long had it been? His heart twists; does he even have a place to return to now?

What is he gonna do?

 _Come home,_ the palace begs him. Its words do not calm him in the slightest. Luckily for Karl, the door opens just as he’s falling into fear again; he looks up and the knight, the Dragonborn, he’s sitting next to him, carrying a piece of bread filled with cheese. 

“Hi,” he says. He was _Sapnap,_ Karl remembers. He could never forget that. “I brought you breakfast. I wasn’t sure if you’d like this, but it’s what we have, so… I hope you do?”

Karl takes the sandwich with a polite smile. He knows it’s expected of him, politeness. (Why?)

“Thank you,” he whispers. He didn’t mean it to be a whisper. He speaks louder this time: “did you, uh, find anything? On me?”

“Well, Dream wrote to his friend, and he has contacts, so if anyone knows about you, it’ll be easier to locate them.” Karl bites down on the sandwich and nearly cries at the overwhelming texture and crunch. It dawns on him that he doesn’t remember ever eating _anything_ before. “Are you okay?”

“Yes- yes, it’s just- the cheese.” 

He takes another bite, bigger this time, with feeling. Sapnap stares at him for a moment before breaking into soft laughter; it’s contagious, it seems. “I’m glad you like it, I was worried. What was I talking about?”

“Me going home,” Karl supplies, but not before swallowing his bite. He rejoices at how _natural_ it is to him.

“Oh! Yeah, right. We won’t find much yet, but you’re free to do what you want now. If you remember _anything,_ we’d be happy to help.”

“Thank you,” Karl tells him again, still meaning it. He finishes the sandwich in silence, and it’s unnerving to him, the quiet, but Sapnap’s breathing is loud and grand and it grounds him somewhat. “It’s scary, isn’t it?” He says, trying to break the stillness of the room. “I don’t know what’s going to happen now. All I can remember is that same old room for years and years, and now everything changed so suddenly. I think it scares me a little. 

“But I’ll be okay now,” he’s quick to reassure his companion, with a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I just need to figure some stuff out now. Like where the honk I am. Or where I’m from.”

He curls into his coat, sighing, and that’s when Sapnap says, “you could stay with us in the meantime,” and Karl’s head snaps in his direction. “I mean, if you want to. We just travel around a lot, it could help you find your way home faster? You don’t have to say yes, but the boys and I already discussed it, it wouldn’t be a problem or anything—“

Karl’s giggles ring through the room, like bells of liberty. Sapnap’s chest tightens, fearing the worst, before Karl gives him the softest smile this side of the continent and reaches for his hand with both of his own. “If you’d have me,” he says, “I’d love to.”

(Later, as they leave the inn towards the Wilds once more, Karl studies Sapnap’s face.

“Something wrong?”

A hand reaches up to brush against his face. Sapnap tries to act nonchalant about it.

“No, it’s just… I feel like I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?”

“I think I’d remember someone like you, Karl.”) 

It all feels like a dream, sometimes. Like something out of a fairytale. 

A castle, far away. Not the Inbetween, he realizes that now, even if it’s still too hazy, too confusing. It’s a citadel. It’s home.

Someone running his hands through his hair, the sound of the ocean. The man’s laughter as they face off in a duel, swords clashing against each other. Another man holding his hand as they sneak out of a masquerade, into the gardens.

Was this his life, before?

He knew there had to be more.

He’ll find them. He’ll find out what happened to him.

No matter what.  
  


(Correspondence between Technoblade and Dream.)

_Tech’i,_

_Sorry it’s been a while since my last letter. Things have been hectic over here these past few days. We’re fine, don’t worry! No need to send the cavalry._

_We were heading to the peace negotiations I told you about, but we got sidetracked. Long story short, we rescued a prince or something from a pocket universe; maybe Phil knows about him? He has memory issues, but he says his name is Karl Jacobs. Conquest thinks he’s like us. I’d like you to take a look at him maybe? I feel like your God might be able to tell who he is or where he came from. He’s a nice guy, though, and Sap sticks to him like glue. For now he’s traveling with us. And the negotiations went well!_

_George sends you a kiss. I think he’s being genuine this time. Sapnap decked him, so don’t be too jealous. Here’s some candy from Newfoundland._

_Yours truly,_

_Klai_

_Dream,_

_I want whatever drugs you were smoking when you wrote this._

_In all seriousness: come home soon. I want to meet this Karl guy._

_Also, what the hell were you doing in Newfoundland?_

_Yours forever,_

_Techno._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm alive woo  
> sorry for the long break. finished semester (agony) that was two weeks ago these two weeks ive just been suffering the unbearable ordeal of existing as a woman  
> couple of notes:  
> \- yeah this is karl. yes i adore smp!karl. do not prosecute me, i have a soft spot for time travelers. they are my jam. i see angsty time traveler and i adopt them  
> \- if this makes less sense than usual consider the following: i am aware and ill probably fix it but probably not  
> \- i am actually working on wil's chapter but i went on a karl spree and finished this in like half a week  
> \- my dear avd very talented friend and co-writer for this au, rocky, posted a few stories in this au a while ago. [you can find **the rolling thunder** here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28961208/chapters/71067219) do give it a read if you can, i promise you won't regret it, and they're canon to the au! we've made a collection for this au too.  
> \- what else, what else...  
> \- remember how i said i wanted to expand on other gods? this is part of it.  
> \- yeah i made my man rtgame canon what about it! his conflicts with pirates is just callmekevin causing chaos  
> \- mm, i think that's it.  
> chronologically this happens, um, after techno and dream meet but before the tubbo-gets-kidnapped-by-wilbur incident.  
> anyway thanks for reading!! ill try not to take a month and a half for the next update!


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